Her Kind of Hero: The Last Mercenary. Diana Palmer

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      Callie came to in a limousine. She was trussed up like a calf in a bulldogging competition, wrists and ankles bound, and a gag in her mouth. The three men who’d kidnapped her were conversing.

      They weren’t speaking Spanish. She heard at least one Arabic word that she understood. At once, she knew that they were Manuel Lopez’s men, and that Micah had told the truth about the danger she and Jack were in. It was too late now, though. She’d been careless and she’d been snatched.

      She lowered her eyelids when one of the men glanced toward her, pretending to still be groggy, hoping for a chance to escape. Bound as she was, that seemed impossible. She shifted a little, noticing with comfort the feel of the tiny cell phone she’d slipped into her slacks’ pocket before leaving the office. If they didn’t frisk her, she might get a call out. She remembered what she’d heard about Lopez, and her blood ran cold.

      She couldn’t drag her wrists out of the bonds. They felt like ropes, not handcuffs. Her arm was sore—she wondered if perhaps they’d given her a shot, a sedative of some sort. She must have been out a very long time. It had been late afternoon when she’d been kidnapped. Now it was almost dawn. She wished she had a drink of water….

      The big limousine ate up the miles. She had some vague sensation that she’d been on an airplane. Perhaps they’d flown to an airport and the car had picked them up. If only she could see out the window. There were undefined shadows out there. They looked like trees, alot of trees. Her vision was slightly blurred and she felt as if her limbs were made of iron. It was difficult to concentrate, and more difficult to try to move. What had they given her?

      One man spoke urgently to the other and indicated Callie. He smiled and replied with a low, deep chuckle.

      Callie noticed then that her blouse had come apart in the struggle. Her bra was visible, and those men were staring at her as if they had every right. She felt sick to her soul. It didn’t take knowing the language to figure out what they were saying. She was completely innocent, but before this ordeal was over, she knew she never would be again. She felt a wave of grief wash over her. If only Micah hadn’t pushed her away that Christmas. Now it was too late. Her first and last experience of men was going to be a nightmarish one, if she even lived through it. That seemed doubtful. Once the drug lord discovered that Micah had no affection for his stepsister, that he actually hated her and wouldn’t soil his hands paying her ransom, she was going to be killed. She knew what happened in kidnappings. Most people knew. It had never occurred to her that she would ever figure in one. How ironic, that she was poor and unattractive, and that hadn’t spared her this experience.

      She wondered dimly what Micah would say when he knew she was missing. He’d probably feel well rid of her, but he might pay the ransom for her father’s sake. Someone had to look after Jack Steele, something his only child couldn’t apparently be bothered to do. Callie loved the old man and would have gladly sacrificed her life for him. That made her valuable in at least one way.

      The one bright spot in all this was that once word of Callie’s kidnapping got out, Micah would hire a bodyguard for Jack whether he wanted one or not. Jack would be safe.

      She wished she knew some sort of self-defense, some way of protecting herself, of getting loose from the ropes and the gag that was slowly strangling her. She hadn’t had time for lunch the day before and she’d been drugged for the whole night and into the next morning. She was sick and weak from hunger and thirst, and she really had to go to the bathroom. It was a bad day all around.

      She closed her eyes and wished she’d locked her car doors and sped out of reach of her assailants. If there was a next time, if she lived to repeat her mistakes, she’d never repeat that one.

      She shifted because her legs were cramping and she felt even sicker.

      Listening to the men converse in Arabic, she realized her abductors weren’t from Mexico. But as she looked out the window now, she could see the long narrow paved ribbon of road running through what looked like rain forest. She’d never been to the Yucatán, but she knew what it looked like from volumes of books she’d collected on Maya relics. Her heart sank. She knew that Manuel Lopez lived near Cancún, and she knew she was in the Yucatán. Her worst fears were realized.

      Only minutes later, the car pulled into a long paved driveway through tall steel gates. The gates closed behind them. They sped up to an impressive whitewashed beach house overlooking a rocky bay. It had red ceramic tiles and the grounds were immaculate and full of blooming flowers. Hibiscus in November. She could have laughed hysterically. Back home the trees were bare, and here everything was blooming. She wondered what sort of fertilizer they used to grow those hibiscus flowers so big, and then she remembered Lopez’s recent body count. She wondered if she might end up planted in his garden…

      The car stopped. The door was opened by a suited dark man holding an automatic rifle of some sort, one of those little snub-nosed machine guns that crooks on television always seemed to carry.

      She winced as the men dragged her out of the car and frog-marched her, bonds and all, into the ceramic tile floored lobby. The tile was black and white, like a chessboard. There was a long, graceful staircase and, overhead, a crystal chandelier that looked like Waterford crystal. It probably cost two or three times the price of her car.

      As she searched her surroundings, a small middle-aged man strolled out of the living room with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t smile. He walked around Callie as if she were some sort of curiosity, his full lips pursed, his small dark eyes narrow and smugly gleaming. He jerked her gag down.

      “Miss Kirby,” he murmured in accented English. “Welcome to my home. I am Manuel Lopez. You will be my guest until your interfering stepbrother tries to rescue you,” he added, hesitating in front of her. “And when he arrives, I will give him what my men have left of you, before I kill him, too!”

      Callie thought that she’d never seen such cruelty in a human being’s eyes in her life. The man made her knees shake. He was looking at her with contempt and possession. He reached out a stubby hand and ripped her blouse down in front, baring her small breasts in their cotton bra.

      “I had expected a more attractive woman,” he said. “Sadly you have no attractions with which to bargain, have you? Small breasts and a body that would afford little satisfaction. But Kalid likes women,” he mused, glancing at the small, dark man who’d been sitting across from Callie. “When I need information, he is the man who obtains it for me. And although I need no information from you, Miss Kirby,” he murmured, “it will please Kalid to practice his skills.”

      A rapid-fire burst of a guttural language met the statement.

      “Español!” Lopez snapped. “You know I do not understand Arabic!”