The major sent out the two Little Bird helicopters to extract them from the twilit jungle.

Or to at least move around the pieces on the board.

Drake could only smile as Nikita kept griping about not going with LCDR Altman, but it was clear that her place had to be at Drake’s side. Besides, if ever there was a one-man army for a special assignment, Drake knew that Luke Altman was it.

Then their Little Bird, nearly as silent as the night birds whose calls filled the forest, set him and Nikita down on the road a half kilometer outside El Carbón. He enjoyed the stroll through the descending darkness with Nikita. It was easy to imagine walking like this with her, making it a regular part of what they did together, talking about not much of anything.

He told her about his big sister, who stood five inches shorter than he did and just how much that continued to make her crazy.

She told him about the life with her mother before the Curtis Contracting debacle had shattered her family. Even back then it had been mostly just the two of them as her father was always away on “assignment.”

The wind, which had buffeted the Little Bird, was now building through the high trees, rattling the leaves together almost as loudly as the various birdcalls. Whatever they were, they weren’t chickadees or cardinals. There was a moving cacophony of clicks, buzzes, throaty rattles, and other birdlike noises, warning of their progress along the darkened road—they certainly didn’t sound like any birds from New England or even Alabama.

The small packs they’d been handed during the brief flight had lightened rapidly as they each drank several bottles of water and ate two meals’ worth of rations.

By the time they reached the village, lit only by a few stray indoor lights, he wished he’d thought to grab a flashlight. The “main highway” through the region had turned into an agility test of stumbling among unseen potholes.

Their rental was waiting—and it had gathered a large circle of gawkers in the small town. No wonder. It was a town with only three buildings that were two stories high; the others were better than shacks, but not by much. Donkey carts, not cars, were the standard.

And there, in the center of town—as defined by the tiny cluster of buildings huddled together along the road—sat a shining black Toyota Land Cruiser. He and Nikita picked up their own following as well, mostly children eager to see the two white people who had walked into town along a road that stretched empty for over twenty kilometers before the next community, farther up into the interior.

Behind the Land Cruiser, a small white pickup was parked with two men sitting on the tailgate.

“Senor Baer?” The rounder of the two men struggled to his feet and asked.

“Si,” Drake nodded, hitting another third of his Spanish. He only remembered at the last moment that he’d decided to keep posing as GSI so that his own name didn’t appear on any paper trail in Honduras.

The man replied with a long fluid cadence of which Drake didn’t catch a single word.

Much to the man’s consternation, Nikita was the one who answered with something that might have been questions or might have been music. He was going to have to learn the language just so that he could listen to her speak it so beautifully.

The man handed her the keys and a card and looked relieved to be rid of it.

“Bueno,” Nikita finally finished and turned to Drake. “He says that this is an armored version to B6+ standards. That covers us through all the 5.56 mm ammo and most of the 7.62, up to armor-piercing. Our clothes and gear are inside. We simply call this number and tell him where the vehicle is when we’re done with it and they will fetch it back.”

“Wonder what the insurance waiver is on this thing. Norma done good. Remind me to tip her well.”

“Let’s just be glad that J-dawg is paying for it, both the waiver and the massive tip.”

“Roger that. Gracias,” he used up the last third of his vocabulary on the two men. They drove away as fast as they could as if there was going to be a gun battle right here in the middle of El Carbón. Unlikely, as they had gathered quite a crowd of locals by that point.

“I’d be more comfortable if we got out of town first.” She went straight to the driver’s door.

He thought it was amusing, until he saw the puzzled look on the crowd’s faces. In this culture, the man would always be the one to drive. He stepped up and plucked the keys from her hand.

“But—”

“You’re messing with my macho, woman.” Her glare as she circled to the other side warmed his heart.

Nikita had wanted to go straight to her tactical clothing. Norma had even packed her boots and she was going to kiss the hotelier the next time she saw her.

“No,” Drake had insisted as they changed by the soft wash of the dome light spilling out the back of the SUV on an empty stretch of dark, dirt one-lane. “We have an image to maintain. And you’re the surprise.”

That’s why she hated her role in this. There was only so far she was willing to compromise.

Before putting on the dress, she strapped a Glock 19 on one thigh, her knife with three spare magazines on the other, and slipped the Glock 36 subcompact and its spares into a purse that Zoe had made her buy because there were no pant legs to hide an ankle piece. Now she felt halfway to human. If only she could think of a way to slip five feet of sniper rifle under her clothes…

Roman had pulled on a fresh t-shirt and slacks, strapped on an ankle piece (which she envied), and shoulder-holstered a pair of Glocks under his jacket. Then he leaned back against the open door and watched her. Steady, calm, and armed to the teeth—he looked so damn good. His smile said he knew it, too.

No.

His smile said she was standing naked except for her underwear and her weapons in the middle of a dark road in a hazardous country.

“Damn but you’re a picture, woman.”

“I’m not a fantasy poster-babe.”

“You sure as hell are. What I wouldn’t give for a camera at the moment.”

“That would be good. It would give me something to break over your head, Duck-man.” How was she supposed to keep herself from being dazzled by him? Nobody ever saw her the way Drake did. She almost wished that Norma had packed that ridiculous bit of La Perla frippery just so that she could pull it on at this moment and then tell him he wasn’t allowed to touch her.

“If only we had the time,” his voice was soft as he reached out and brushed a thumb down her cheek. Not her exposed breasts, not her bare waist, but her cheek.

She struggled with the unexpected tenderness as she wrestled the dress on over her head and her weapons. It made her feel…what? Desirable? Drake’s every glance and gesture made her feel that. Exposed? Absolutely, as if he could see parts of inside her that even she couldn’t.

But there was something else.

She turned her back to him, “Zip me.” What stupid men had designed dresses so that a woman needed a man to get her in and out of them? Bastards.

Roman zipped her in, then slipped his hands around her waist and held her tightly—so tightly it was even harder to breathe than the dress’ tight waistband made it.

Wanted? There was no question that Drake wanted her. Nor that she wanted him. She could finally accept that a man had gotten so far past her shields that she wanted him deeply.

“When we get out of this, Nikita, we’re going somewhere and you’re mine. Completely mine. You hear?” His voice was intense and his arms squeezed even tighter about her abdomen as he buried his face in her hair.

That’s when she knew what Drake made her feel.

Loved. Sugar and Zoe had both said Drake was “gone” on her. She hadn’t understood. Maybe they hadn’t even understood, not fully.

He wasn’t gone on her, he was in love. That was something she truly wasn’t ready for. But the words that came out weren’t careful or a rebuff. They were soft and…feminine.

“Yes, Drake. Completely.”

Now she had a new question: why was that answer not scaring the crap out of her?