Chapter 11
Eddy rushed through the morning, mentally checking things off her to-do list. She was hell on wheels when it came to lists. Unfortunately, she wasn’t nearly as good with people. Especially men. Oh, yeah, she could kick the crap out of Damien—the punching bag she’d christened after her first disappointing crush—but when a real, live, breathing man was in the vicinity, she had a tendency to act like a twittering idiot. And men like Gabriel Bertram Durrand… Well, she’d have to be brain dead not to be unnerved by him. And she wasn’t brain dead. She was, in fact, highly intelligent, despite what her current plans suggested to the contrary.
She closed her eyes as her printer regurgitated information regarding the Colombian drug trade, the escalating hostage situation, and civil unrest. There would be time to get sick while reading it later on the plane. As for the vaccinations Durrand had suggested, she’d managed to take care of those at a walk-in clinic not fifteen blocks from the little short-saled Tudor she’d purchased two years before.
She’d notified everyone that needed to be told about her impending departure…namely her mother and her two friends from work. It seemed like a pathetically short list. But it was a good thing there weren’t more, because honest to God, she wasn’t meant for lying, and yet she had done just that, inventing an unlikely story about vacationing in Aruba then bushing off further explanations by insisting she had to hurry to catch her plane.
She glanced around her personal space. Copper bottom pans hung above her persnickety stove. Small but meaningful memorabilia adorned the walls and furniture in the living area. A wooden mask from Tanzania, a conch from Fiji. As an Army brat, she was rarely in one place for long. Maybe that’s why her cozy little home felt so much like a sanctuary. And never more than now. She glanced at the couch where soft blankets and earth-toned pillows were tossed across the cushions. On the north wall, next to the much-used fireplace, hung her mother’s first attempt at a patchwork quilt. After fifteen more, Barbara Comfrey-Edwards had become considerably more proficient. Eddy, however, still preferred the blanket with the crooked angles and fraying edges.
But the Tudor was just a building, she reminded herself and glanced out the window. Gray bullets of slush were slashing the pane. Which was just as well; at least the tropical heat of Colombia would seem pleasant by comparison.
“Printing complete,” the automated voice announced, making her jump. Embarrassed by her own skittishness, she pulled the printouts from the tray, turned off the machine and stood.
Outside, the slush had turned to hail. Sharp shards of ice struck her window, tapping out a warning. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
But she shook her head, aligned the papers, slid them into a folder and shoved them into her carry-on. In less than ten hours she would be on a plane to Bogotá. But what was she going to do until then?
“I’m not saying it was Miller’s fault,” Gabe said.
“You don’t have to say it, Durrand.” Ken Jacobs was short, tan, and wiry. A three-inch laceration had been sutured above his right eye. He had a barbed wire tattoo inked around the biceps of his left arm, and the upright stance of a warrior even when shit-faced, which he currently was. He couldn’t have looked more Army if he’d had the United States flag branded on his forehead. “I know you think it’s his fault that Shep’s gone Elvis.”
Gabe gritted his teeth and reminded himself to be civil. “Listen, I just want to find him. I’ve got nothing against Miller.” He was getting better at this lying thing, though he’d never be the virtuoso Shep was…that dumb bastard could make you believe blue was red without breaking a sweat.
Something clouded Jacobs’ eyes…but whether it was guilt or worry or embarrassment, Gabe had no idea.
“I can’t help you, man,” Jacobs said and took a significant slug from a tankard of beer big as a Bradley tank. O’Grady’s microbrews tasted like cat piss, but at least the establishment offered a lot of cat piss. And O’Grady himself was ex-Army down to the short hairs, so military types tended to frequent his place.
Gabe tightened his fists beneath the table and forced himself to lean back in his chair. Nonchalant as a cobra. “I just want a little information. That’s all.”
Jacobs took another drink then made a face and shifted his gaze away. “Even if I wanted to stroll down memory lane with you, Durrand, I can’t,” he said. “I signed a contract. Said the mission was confidential.”
Gabe tried to nod, agreeable and easy-going. No one was going to beat the crap out of anybody today. “I appreciate your loyalty,” he said. “But a man’s life is at stake here, and I can’t—”
Jacobs snorted, drained his glass and motioned toward the bartender.
“Something funny?” Gabe asked.
“No. Nothin’,” Jacobs said and motioned more emphatically toward O’Grady.
Gabe took a deep breath, calming himself. “I know this is tough, but—”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Jacobs snarled suddenly and lurched to his feet.
Gabe met him halfway, grabbing him by the shirtfront. “Listen you little—”
“Is this man threatening you, soldier?”
The voice from behind was soft but firm. It seeped into Durrand’s frontal lobe, urging him not to do anything unreasonable, like toss Jacobs through the nearest goddamn window. “’Course not,” he said and shook his head without turning toward the speaker. “I’m just trying to convince my friend here not to drive drunk.”
“Your friend is a hero.” The words were said with melodramatic passion. Gabe turned his attention to the speaker. And there, not four feet behind him, stood Jenny with a y Edwards. Gabe felt the shock strike him a moment before his brows lowered.
“What the hell are you—”
“And I won’t stand for you bullying a hero.”
Gabe stared at her.
“I don’t need your help, lady,” Jacobs said.
“I know you don’t,” she agreed. Her voice was as dulcet as a dove’s, completely devoid of that in-your-face attitude she’d demonstrated in a certain woman’s restroom not many hours before. “But Daddy’d never forgive me if I just sat over there and let this big oaf badger you.” She took a step forward, giving Jacobs his first clear look at her, or as clear as his sight could be through a half gallon of piss-poor beer.
“Christ!” he said, which made Gabe think his vision was pretty damn sharp after all. “Where’d you come from?”
She was still wearing the jeans she’d shown up in at Gabe’s door that morning, but her jacket was gone. The frilly pink number that now covered her breasts was little more than a red flag to a bull. She drew a deep breath, expanding her lungs and the aforementioned breasts, which weren’t big by some standards, but what bull really cares?
“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked.
Jacobs straightened, pressing his chest against Gabe’s knuckles.
“Jacobs. Lieutenant. First class,” he said and quirked a little shit-eating grin.
“Well, Lieutenant, I’d like to buy you a drink. On my daddy. Unless I need to call the cops first,” she said and glanced pointedly at Gabe, who forced himself to drop his hands and step back a pace.
Eddy moved seamlessly into the space. “I’m sure you can find some flies to torture or something,” she said before turning her attention on Jacobs. Her expression softened.
“Where’d you serve, Lieutenant?”
“What?”
“Your forehead.” She blinked, eyes wide and misty, like a fairytale pixie about to burst into tears. “Where were you injured?”
“Oh…” He motioned toward the chair Gabe had just vacated. She sat down, movements slow and deliberate, bending forward maybe just a little more than necessary.
Jacobs’s gaze dipped irresistibly toward her cleavage. His lips curved up. “I was stationed in Stuttgart for a while.”
“You hear that, bully?” she asked, lifting her gaze toward Gabe’s. “He’s a patriot.”
Gabe managed to resist rolling his eyes but couldn’t completely contain his snort of disdain.
“Something wrong with Stuttgart?” she asked.
“Not if you’re on vacation,” Gabe rumbled.
“Listen, you fucking—” Jacobs began and stumbled to his feet, but Eddy grabbed his arm.
“Ignore him,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”
Gabe watched the options scuttle like cockroaches through Jacobs’ swamped brain: fight with a pissed off Army Ranger, or let the pretty lady stroke his starving ego?
Gabe watched the jaunty lieutenant settle back into his chair and wondered what the hell to do next. Half of O’Grady’s sparse patrons were staring at him as if he’d just come down with a critical case of head lice. And Edwards seemed to have things well under control. Maybe she’d even be able to drag some information out of the inebriated little shit. On the other hand, maybe she wasn’t there to get info at all. Maybe she really thought he was being unfair by badgering Jacobs.
“We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
Gabe glanced to his left then lowered his gaze. O’Grady was an under-sized man with a super-sized belly. “We support our troops here.” He jerked a thumb toward a sign half hidden behind a bottle of Absolut. “Says there we have the right to refuse service to anybody we want.”
Gabe stared down at the bartender and wondered if he should leave. Although, really, what were the other options? Tell O’Grady Jacobs had left a man behind to die in the jungle? Tell him Eddy Edwards was not as innocent as she seemed, and might, if some dumb fuck were lucky enough, end up in a bathroom stall doing things that violated a couple dozen health codes?
In the end, retreat seemed to be his most dignified option.