CHAPTER ELEVEN

Etienne pulled his wrists apart, as far as the ropes would allow.  The guard who’d tied them had done a damned fine job, and hadn’t allowed much slack.  Too bad he didn’t know he was dealing with a Boudreau.  He’d learned to escape ropes from the time he’d been knee high to an alligator’s eyeball.  His daddy trained him and his brothers in a plethora of escape tactics, maneuvers Gator learned in the military, and a host of other places.  Though his daddy never mentioned where he’d disappeared to throughout Etienne’s childhood, he had a pretty good idea who his father did the occasional job for, an agency he didn’t ask too many questions about. 

While he worked on loosening the knots, he couldn’t help thinking about what Samuel had said when he found out Gareth Prescott was here, in Costa Rica, and more importantly, this close to Stephanie.  Personally, he didn’t know a hell of a lot about Gareth Prescott.  Except for what Samuel had told him, about the man supposedly being in a maximum security prison somewhere in Nevada—or at least he had been.

After graduation Etienne joined the military and been gone from New Orleans for far too long.  But he never forgot Jasmine DuBois.  She’d been the darling of New Orleans upper echelon from the moment of her birth.  Not being from one of the city’s well-to-do families, he’d watched the whole debutante thing play out in the papers and online.  Remembered seeing pictures of Jasmine’s sweet sixteen party at the country club.  One he’d never been considered worthy to set foot in. 

She’d worn an ice blue dress covered with shimmering beads and glittery stuff that made her look like a fairy princess.  Her long auburn hair flowed around her bared shoulders, and she’d had a single diamond teardrop pendant on a silver chain around her neck, nestled in the hollow of her throat.  Her blue eyes had shone brightly, intensified to an almost sapphire color, accentuated by the color of the dress.  Seeing her smiling face on the television news, he’d fallen a little in lust with the gorgeous redhead, but never considered pursuing anything.  She was too far out of his league. 

While everybody in New Orleans knew Gator Boudreau, and respected the family as good, hardworking, and dependable, rich folks like the DuBois’ wouldn’t want their daughter hooking up with a no-account like Etienne Boudreau. 

His mind reeled—pretty little Stephanie Barnes was really Jasmine DuBois?  And Samuel knew, had known all along, and helped her fake her death to get away from the man now holding her captive. 

Keeping his hands hidden beneath the table, he continued working at the knots.  He’d worry about the bonds on his feet once his hands were free.  One of the guards had searched him when they captured him in the foliage right outside the back patio, but missed the small razor-thin blade tucked into the inside of his boot. 

Big mistake. 

The guards had quickly marched two women out of the kitchen before he could utter a word, the other two hostages he assumed.  Eyes filled with fear, neither had spoken, but he’d noted a few bruises on their upper arms.  Hopefully, that was the worst they’d endured. 

With a muttered curse, the guard had dragged him through the opening, and slammed Etienne onto a chair, hard enough it rocked back on two legs.  He’d made short work of trussing him up, hand and foot, and the guards left, leaving an older woman behind the counter.  She methodically stirred a huge pot simmering on the burner, intermittently adding chopped carrots, onions, and peppers.  From her stoic expression, she wasn’t anticipating rescue any time soon.

That left three men, all armed, in the huge kitchen.  Glancing toward the windows, he’d spotted another guard patrol past a couple of times, but no other activity from outside.  Which meant Roberts and his team remained on the perimeter of the property, and hadn’t made any kind of offensive incursion. 

Somehow, he needed to signal them, tell them to hold until he got a better idea of the situation.  Hopefully Bas would keep his head, and help Roberts keep a handle on things.  His brother knew Etienne could take care of himself and the situation from inside, as long as they maintained their position outside.  If they stormed the castle, things could get ugly pretty damned quick. 

Ah, he breathed an almost audible sigh, as one hand slid free from the rope’s tight grip.  He held his body rigid, keeping his gaze on the guards in the room.  He didn’t want to make his play too early, but if his movements alerted them, he’d take them out.  Wouldn’t be easy, three against one, but he’d faced worse odds. 

Without moving his upper body, he raised both knees as high as he could in the confined space, until they bumped against the underside of the tabletop, and slid his fingers into his right boot, extracting the thin blade.  With a slow, practiced movement, he sliced through the ropes binding his ankles together and eased both feet to the floor.  Thank you, Daddy, for teaching me that little trick. 

Timing was crucial.  One misstep, one fraction of a second and everything would go to hell in a handbasket.  He waited, and watched, knowing he’d only get one shot at taking out the guards.  When the guard closest to the cook reached across the cutting board and grabbed a piece of carrot and popped it into his mouth, the cook hissed out a curse, and swatted at the guard’s hand.  It looked like an automatic reflex, the kind of thing a parent would do when a child snuck a treat off the counter, but it was precisely the distraction he needed.

Shoving the table to the side, he sprang toward the closest guard, slamming his fist into his jaw.  The man’s head jerked back from the impact of the blow, and Etienne saw his eyes roll back in his head, right before he slumped to the floor.  The second guard, the one standing beside the cook, gave a startled yelp, and had taken a half step toward Etienne, before crumpling to the tiled floor in a heap.  The smiling cook stood calmly behind him, a skillet clenched in a two-handed grip. 

Which left one guard, fumbling to get his weapon.  He’d placed the strap across his shoulder, with the HK-416 hanging along his back.  Such an amateur move.  Any soldier worth his salt knew better than to carry his weapon like that.  It might look cool in the movies and on TV—in real life the delay in getting to your weapon would get you killed. 

Coming in with a leg sweep, the guard toppled to the ground, and Etienne wrapped his forearm across the guard’s throat, applying pressure and choking off his air.  Fingers clawed at him, trying to break his hold, but grew weaker as the guy’s air supply was cut off.  Finally, his body slumped forward, unconscious. 

Using his rusty Spanish, he asked the cook for something to tie up the guards.  The best they could do was kitchen towels, not his first choice, but they’d have to do until he could get Stephanie out.  Securing the three guards, he drew in a long, deep breath, and picked up the M4 carbine the first guard had dropped. 

That was more like it.  He was inside, and he was armed. 

Now he just had to find Stephanie.