Chapter 28
Gabe awoke with a start. Beside him, Edwards’ eyes were wide, her body motionless.
They were still in the hostel, but someone was at the door. Somehow he knew that, though he’d been unconscious moments before.
He lifted his finger to his lips to signal for silence, yanked the IV from his forearm and slipped silently up beside the door. Dragging the knife out of his boot, he motioned for her to stay behind him, but she stepped around him and turned the knob.
“Come in,” she said.
Gabe straightened with a snap.
A skinny man with dark skin and an ingratiating smile stepped inside.
“What the hell’s going on?” Gabe’s voice was little more than a rumble. His mind felt like woolen batting. He hated drugs.
“Thanks for coming,” Edwards said.
The scrawny guy nodded briskly and raised his hand.
Gabe lifted his knife in unison, but the other waved his fingers as if warding off a fly. “No need. We friends.”
It wasn’t until that moment that he noticed the man was carrying a duffle bag. A very large very red duffle bag.”
“Edwards, who is this man?”
“I don’t know his name.”
Gabe kept his attention dead center on the Colombian. “I usually know the names of my friends.”
The little man shrugged, smiled and unzipped the bag. An armory lay inside. From where he stood, Gabe could see an AK-47, a Beretta, a SIG, and a pair of grenades. He shifted his attention to Edwards.
“I called in a favor,” she said.
To whom, he wondered. God himself didn’t have that much artillery readily available. So maybe the devil owed her a little something. Still… “How do we know we can trust you?” he asked. To which the little man simply shrugged, set the bag on the bed and moved toward the door. In a moment, he was gone.
The room went silent.
“What the hell just happened?” Gabe asked, but Edwards was already pulling an assault rifle from its mates.
He actually caught his breath at the sight of it. She grinned. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
He tried to remain aloof but… “You got a Light Fifty?” he asked and lifted the weapon from the depths of the goody bag.
“Plus scopes and flash suppressors.”
He caressed the barrel. “How did this happen?”
“I called a friend of a friend.”
“Your friend’s friends make gun deliveries?” He pulled out a Smith and Wesson. “Like Dominos Pizza?” It was too good to be true. “How do you know we can trust him?”
“Well…” She was slipping rounds into the double stack magazine of a G21. “For starters, he just gave us enough weapons to break into Fort Knox.”
She had a pretty good point there. But he was born and bred to be distrustful. Hell, he didn’t even trust his mother. Then again, no one with a lick of sense trusted Sarge. “Who’s your contact?”
“I’d tell you,” she said. “But then I’d have to kill you.” She glanced up. “Literally.”
She was standing with her feet braced wide. Her hair was wet, framing her heart-shaped face and her t-shirt clung to her body like overzealous cellophane. Special-Ops Barbie, he thought and put his hormones on lockdown.
“You think he’s trustworthy?”
She nodded. “As does the CIA.”
He drew a deep breath. It was entirely possible he didn’t really know this girl. “All right,” he said. “Let’s—” he began and paused. Lifting his nose slightly, he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“Oh…” She glanced almost guiltily toward the tiny kitchenette. “I made soup.”
He stared at her, sure for a moment that she couldn’t be serious. But she had already set the Glock aside and was dishing up a bowl.
It smelled like braised beef and something else. Contentment maybe.
How the hell had she managed this, he wondered as she pushed the dish toward him.
“It’s just a can of soup.”
He raised his brows at her. He may have been catatonic, but he wasn’t entirely stupid.
“With a little meat added. And some onions. A couple tomatoes.”
He still stared at her. Was she blushing?
“You have to build up your strength, and I…I like to cook.” She sounded strangely defensive as she forced the bowl into his hand and turned stiffly away.
He tasted it as she tested the weight of a semi-automatic, but it was difficult to focus. The soup sucked him in. In a minute, it was gone. He glanced toward the pot that remained on the stove and refrained from mimicking Oliver Twist.
“I already ate,” she said. “Finish it up. There’s bread by the sink.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice.
Finally full, he set the bowl aside and wiped his hands on a towel.
“Thank you.”
She glanced up from where she was tucking away the last of the medical supplies. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized she had organized every article in the room. Holy shit, Action Barbie had just busted her hump while Sleepy Ken took a twelve-hour siesta.
“No problem,” she said.
Really? He wondered and refrained from kissing her feet. “You didn’t happen to secure a Humvee and an armed escort, did you?”
“Just the guns,” she said and raising the Glock again, sighted down the sleek, black barrel.
It was the sexiest thing he had ever seen. And what the hell did that say about him?
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He pulled himself from his dumb-ass trance. Not only had he taken an unscheduled nap, he was now acting like a prepubescent redneck in the throes of his first crush.
“Are you feeling faint again? Maybe you should lie down.”
“Good idea,” he said and felt his molars grind as he pushed the curtain aside a scant inch and glanced outside. The sun was just painting its first blush on the morning. “How about I hit the rack again while you go rustle up another vehicle.”
“I think I liked you better when you were comatose.”
“Everyone does,” he admitted, and shoving the SIG into an oversized pocket of his khakis, put his hand on the doorknob. “Get some sleep. This might take a while.”
“What are you doing?” Her tone was already tight with worry.
“Going to buy a car.”
“Buy one?”
“Untraditional, I know, but having one irate motorist out for our blood might be enough.” He glanced at her. She was still holding the Glock in both hands but had let it drop to arms’ length so that it was perfectly positioned between her thighs. Holy fuck.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” he said and managed to raise his gaze to her face. “If you see even a hint of trouble, call me on my…” He touched his pocket. “Where’s my phone?”
“Oh.” She hustled into the bathroom and returned in a moment, removing the cell’s cord as she reached him. “I charged it. Didn’t know when we’d have access to electricity again.”
Shit! It was like having a sharpshooter and a wife all rolled into one. Except, of course, for that little omission of conjugal rights. Which wasn’t such a tiny omission if you thought about it too hard…or saw her when she was holding a firearm.
But maybe she was as disappointed by those lack of rights as he was. After all, she must have been digging around in his pocket, so perhaps…and fuck he was acting like a retarded ass-wipe again.
“Stay out of sight,” he ordered and stepped outside.