Till Death Us Do Part. Rebecca York

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      Chapter Two

      Jed heard several pairs of feet hammer against the paving stones. He whirled and cursed as four khaki-clad soldiers moving in tight formation came dashing along the path from the direction of the guard station. They all carried machine guns, and they looked as if they were on their way to the offices to foil an assassination attempt.

      “Holy mother!” Clarita whispered a more ladylike version of Jed’s muttered exclamation. Her eyes grew large, and the blood drained from her face. “I told you,” she whispered. “It’s dangerous to go there.”

      “They’re not after you.” Jed reached out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She ducked away from his grasp and ran toward the bedroom wing of the house.

      She had the right idea, Jed thought as he watched her disappear into the safety of the interior. He should probably blast out of here, too, while the blasting was good. He knew how Miguel Sanchez treated spies and how his twisted logic could quickly turn a friend into an enemy.

      He glanced toward the lighted windows of the reception hall, wondering if anyone else had heard the guards. The guests were all drinking and eating and talking as before. Apparently the mariachi music had drowned out the sounds from the patio. Or perhaps no one chose to acknowledge the disturbance.

      He was on his own. And so was Marissa.

      His chest tightened as he strode rapidly after the soldiers.

      One of them was standing at attention in front of the door of the office wing. Too bad it wasn’t a man he’d helped train.

      “Qué pasa?” he asked.

      “This area is off-limits, señor.”

      “I’m Jed Prentiss, a good friend of General Sanchez.”

      The guard shifted the machine gun in his grasp, as if he were unsure about aiming the gun at a good friend of El Jefe. Yet he obviously had his orders. “You’d better go back to the party.”

      Jed stood his ground.

      The sentry, who’d probably never had his authority questioned before, looked uncomfortable.

      The stalemate lasted less than a minute until the rest of the armed contingent returned. The soldiers were escorting a man in civilian clothes who had a firm hold on a woman’s arm.

      It was Marissa.

      Until Jed actually saw her being frog-marched down the hall, he realized he’d been hoping against hope that some other crisis had prompted the summoning of the guards.

      Her face was paper white. It went a shade paler when she spotted him with the sentry, and he knew in that instant that she was thinking he was the one who’d turned her in.

      “What’s he doing here?” the civilian snapped.

      “He says he’s a good friend of El Jefe, sir.”

      “Go back where you belong,” the man in charge said in clipped tones.

      All at once the perfumed air of the tropical night was suffocating. This wasn’t the good old U.S. of A. where you were presumed innocent until proven guilty. This was the sovereign republic of San Marcos where a two-bit official could slap you in jail and throw away the key on the word of an underworld informant.

      Hands resting easily at his sides, Jed summoned up his most guiltless look. “My name’s Jed Prentiss. I helped the general set up his training program at Conquista Fuerte.”

      “So you say.”

      “You can check it out easily enough.” Jed risked shifting his gaze from the man to Marissa. Her body was rigid, her breath shallow. He suspected that if she unstiffened her knees, she’d topple to the ground. His green eyes locked with her blue ones, and he saw how hard she was struggling not to fall apart. He could feel her terror. It cut through his vital organs like a machete blade. And he knew that until a few moments ago she hadn’t dreamed how much trouble she could get into in the nominally democratic republic of San Marcos.

      He wanted to tell her she’d been a damn fool to raid the office of a general who wielded power with the zeal of a medieval king. At the same time he wanted to wrest her from her captor, fold her into his arms and spirit her out of danger like the hero of an action-adventure film. It was an exceedingly fleeting fantasy. Even with the element of surprise, all he’d get for the grand gesture was a bullet in the back.

      “If she’s a spy, I’m a Saudi Arabian sheikh,” he said. “I was talking to her a few minutes ago at the party. She’s a scared-stiff travel agent who wandered into the wrong part of the house.”

      “Perhaps.” The undercover man didn’t sound as if he gave the explanation much credence.

      “Please. I didn’t do anything. Please let me go,” Marissa implored.