Deadly Promises (12 page)

Three

The guard dogs—six mangy mixed-breed rottweiler types, all big, half starved, and trained to be mean—barked maniacally and tugged on their chains as the car approached the mining camp.

Head down, her hands busy sifting through dirt and rock and debris, Carrie squinted against the late-afternoon sun as the vehicle snaked up the narrow road cut into the mountainside. Military vehicles came and went on a daily basis, hauling out the day’s precious mineral finds and delivering supplies, so it wasn’t unusual to see traffic.

What
was
unusual was that when the car pulled into the main base and stopped by the commanding general’s tent, a tall, dark-haired Caucasian man stepped out of the backseat.

Oh, God
.

Her heart jumped when he stood and, hands on his hips, surveyed the mining site from behind his aviator sunglasses.

Maybe he was American! Maybe the American embassy had found out what had happened to her and sent him to take her home!

She took a step in his direction and opened her mouth to call out to him—and a long whipping stick promptly cracked across her shoulders. Gasping at the stinging pain, she fell to her hands and knees.

“Work!” the guard ordered in Burmese. “Work!”

Fire lanced across her shoulders, so sharp she could barely breathe, but if she didn’t get to her feet soon there would be another blow. The throbbing wound on her ribs from when she’d tried to escape two days ago was a constant, painful reminder. She’d been lucky they hadn’t let the dogs loose on her.

Biting back a cry, she struggled to her feet, her gaze darting back to the man as she slowly resumed her work.

He stood twenty yards away from her work station at the mouth of the mine. From that distance, even though she was taller than everyone else around her, she would look the same as the rest of the laborers. They all wore filthy, oversized gray shirts and pants and pointy straw hats. All were bent over their tasks, heads down, backs bowed.

If he saw her he didn’t give any indication. If he cared, he gave even less as the general emerged from the tent. The general extended his hand, offering a warm, hearty greeting, which the newcomer returned.

Excitement zipped through every cell in her body as the two men exchanged a few words. Carrie sneaked furtive glances his way so she wouldn’t draw the attention of the guard again. Even if the dogs’ incessant barking hadn’t interfered, the distance was too far for her to make out each word. Still, she heard enough to pick up a mix of Burmese and English. That knowledge set her heart rate on a crash course, then sent it plummeting when the general lifted a hand toward the tent, indicating they should go inside out of the heat.

She had to get his attention. She had to get him to notice her.

Desperate, she stared at his back and willed him to turn and look at her. Miraculously, he paused at the opening of the tent, turned, pulled off his dark glasses… and looked straight at her.

Her heart nearly exploded.

Their eyes connected.

And she could have sworn he mouthed her name, just before he turned back to the tent. Then he disappeared, leaving her cursing the desperation of a mind that had just played a cruel trick on her.

C
AV REMOVED HIS
shoes, as was the custom, before stepping inside the tent. Even though he felt physically ill at what he’d seen, he smiled his best shyster smile and accepted the shot of whiskey the general’s aide offered on a sterling silver tray.

Forgoing his pact with himself to swear off the booze, he downed the shot in one toss, not giving a damn that it wasn’t scotch. He needed it.
Gawddamn
, he needed it. Not because he was tired and thirsty after the long ride over winding mountain roads. Not because he’d had a few moments of panic under the black hood that had been removed only a few minutes before they’d driven into the camp. Not even because he was now deeply embroiled in a rescue mission that had less than a snowball’s chance in hell of success.

He needed the booze after getting a glimpse of the horrific conditions of the slave laborers forced to work the ruby mine. He needed it because when he’d spotted the slim figure hunched over a crude flume and she’d lifted her head and met his gaze, beneath the rickshaw hat he had seen misery and hope and blue, blue eyes.

He’d found Carrie Granger.

And with one look he’d felt the full weight of her future on his shoulders.

“Yeah.” Cav nodded when the general offered him another shot. “Absolutely.”

He wrapped his fingers around the glass and smiled again for the general, who had clearly been given advance notice of his arrival by Maung Aye.

Cav’s Burmese was spotty, and given there were about a hundred different dialects in Myanmar, what he
did
know wasn’t going to help him out very much. The general wasn’t much better equipped to speak English, but it didn’t matter. Their common language was greed and money. The promise of a
lot
of money.

He extended the letter Maung Aye had provided, then stood in silence, arms folded over his chest, while the general read it. The amount of money that had exchanged hands between Windle and the commerce minister, plus the promise of under-the-table kickbacks, had bought his passage to the Mogok mines. By the time Maung Aye discovered the account on which he’d written a check was bogus, he and Carrie Granger would be well away from here. Or dead.

In the meantime, greed and Windle’s reputation—which the commerce minister had no doubt researched even before meeting with him—had given him carte blanche to explore the mines. The letter instructed the general to allow an up-close-and-personal inspection of the operation, because HI was supposedly contemplating infusing it with millions in investment capital.

Love of money. The root of all evil. And the means to save Carrie Granger from rotting in this hell on earth.

When the general handed the letter back with a nod, Cav breathed a silent sigh of relief. Another hurdle jumped.

The general turned to his attendant, who promptly presented a serving tray filled with an assortment of food.

“Hatamin sa pi bi la?”
Have you eaten?

“Mâhou’ pabù.”
No
, Cav said, getting the gist of the offer and knowing enough Burmese to decline. “But later. First, business,” he added in English and gestured, indicating he wished to leave the tent and tour the operation.

His host nodded and said something to the aide, who quickly produced a hard hat and handed it to Cav.

“Chèzùbè.” Cav added a nod to his thanks. After settling the battered gray hard hat on his head and slipping on his shoes and shades, he followed the general out into the sweltering heat.

Even though he was prepared for what he would see, it was all he could do to keep from knocking the heads of the guards and inciting an insurrection. But the guards and the guns and the dogs numbered too many. Even though the slave laborers outnumbered their captors ten to one, in their poor physical condition they were no match for the Junta.

Young men, old men, women, and children, all emaciated and covered in grime, hauled dirt and rocks in rickety wheelbarrows over steep, narrow paths. Others disappeared into the narrow mine opening carved into the mountain, hauling buckets hanging from poles balanced on their stooped shoulders.

Metal clinked against stone as twenty or so people worked the flumes along the edge of an open pit. Carrie was among them, laboring to lift heavy, screen-bottomed trays out of murky water, then balance them on the edge of the flume in order to roll the stones trapped on the screen with their bare hands and search for the precious bloodred rubies.

Even as she worked, head down, Cav knew she was watching him. He felt the desperation of her gaze on the back of his head like a tractor beam from twenty yards away. He wished he could give her some assurance that he was here to help her, but he couldn’t risk blowing his plan sky high. He’d taken enough of a chance mouthing her name just before he’d ducked into the tent.

He played the part of the cold, calculating investor, nodding in approval when the general explained the operation in a surprisingly understandable dialogue made up of Burmese, broken English, hand signals, and a little Indonesian thrown in for good measure. They spent two hours tromping along the edge of the open pits, into the mouth of the cave, and along the assembly line of workers and the dozen or so cages that acted as their sleeping quarters.

The tour served three purposes. It put the general at ease with Cav’s presence in the camp, and it gave Cav an opportunity to do a complete recon. It also left Cav’s scent all over the place, which would slow down the dogs if they used them to track them when they blew this place.

At the end of the second hour the sun was starting to set and Cav had seen what he needed to see. One road leading in. Same road leading out. A lot of thick, mountainous jungle in between.

It was time to put phase two into play and hope to hell he could keep on his timetable. Everything hinged on timing.

“Thirsty.” He tipped his hand up to his mouth to mimic taking a drink. “Hungry,” he added, patting his stomach. “We can finish the tour tomorrow morning.”

The general nodded that he understood and turned back toward his tent.

Cav stopped him with a hand on his arm, then grinned a man-to-man grin, propped his sunglasses on top of his head, and cupped his crotch. His request was unmistakable. He wanted sex.

The general’s smile was lascivious. This man was no stranger to depravity.

“Belao’lè?” Cav asked.
How much?

The general shrugged and swept out a hand that encompassed the entire workforce, indicating that for the right price Cav could have his pick. A woman. A man. A child.

Cav controlled the urge to shoot the twisted bastard with his own gun.

“Woman.” He pressed open palms to his chest.

When the general shared a lewd smile and dispatched his aide to select a woman, Cav stopped him again. This was the tricky part.

“Anglo?” he asked.

The general’s congenial smile turned to a frown.

Don’t want me anywhere near the American woman, do you, you slimy bastard?
Carrie Granger’s arrest and sentencing had been a mistake, one the government honchos had found out about too late to fix. Now all they wanted was to hide any evidence that it had ever happened, to avoid an international incident. And, of course, to get some work out of her while they kept her alive, just in case she might be of future use as a diplomatic pawn.

“Belao’lè?” Cav repeated, pulled his wallet out, and peeled off several bills.

When the general showed wary interest, Cav added to the stack and kept adding until the general’s greed took priority over his fear of possible reprisal. After all, his commanding officers weren’t here. They didn’t need to know.

Cav drew a breath of relief when, with a crisp nod, the general pocketed the bills and nodded to his aide, who trotted toward the woman whose life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel if this op unraveled.

Four

All of Carrie’s senses jumped into overdrive.

Something was happening.

The American—after hearing more snippets of conversation she’d decided he was
definitely
American—had been touring the labor camp and mine site for the better part of the afternoon. Blood pounding with adrenaline and fear, she’d made two unsuccessful attempts to get his attention, pulling back each time for fear of being caught. And now the general’s aide was heading toward her.

Her heart went haywire as she glanced at the American. His gaze was intent on her the entire time, almost like he was warning her. To what? Stay silent? Stay put? To do as she was told?
What
was he trying to tell her? Or, in her desperation, was she merely imagining it?

He didn’t make any gestures. His lips didn’t move. He just stood by the general’s side, quietly watching her. When the aide reached her and motioned with the barrel of his rifle that she was to move, she glanced his way again.

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Hope spiked to new levels of desperation.

Head down, eyes on the ground, she struggled for balance as the aide shoved her roughly down the path.

Her knees felt like rubber as she stumbled toward them barefoot over bruising rocks and blistering hot dust. Her breath was rapid and shallow. And her heart went absolutely over the top crazy when she stopped in front of him. Not daring to meet his eyes, she prayed every prayer she knew that he was here to help her, and that she wouldn’t do anything to screw it up.

The general barked an order to his aide. Her pulse thundered through her ears and she didn’t understand a word… until a harsh hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and, with a hard tug, ripped it off her shoulders.

She recoiled in shock, fighting back a scream as she instinctively crossed her arms over her bare breasts.

Someone yelled and she realized it was the aide, barking at her to uncover herself. Eyes wide in a plea for compassion, she shook her head and backed several steps away. Two guards immediately flanked her. They each grabbed a wrist, then jerked her arms away from her body, forcing her to stand there completely exposed, humiliated, vulnerable, and terrified.

“Adequate,” the American said in a flat voice.

The cold assessment in his voice chilled her, as did his eyes. His gaze raked her body like she was a piece of meat, lingering on her breasts before rising to her face. Then the bastard stepped forward, gripped her jaw, and turned her head from side to side.

“Yes. She’ll do.”

Beyond humiliated, beyond caution, and unable to fight the gathering tears, she met his dark eyes. “Help me,” she whispered. “Please… please help me.”

She received a cold glare for her efforts. “Clean her up,” he said to the general. “Then bring her to me.”

He smiled then. A calculating, predatory smile laced with an ugly carnal heat, and he shared a laugh with the general.

Revulsion gagged her as rough hands dragged her toward the outdoor shower area reserved for the guards. There she was forced to strip off her pants and, completely naked, was shoved under the solar shower with a block of coarse soap.

She was beyond mortified as the guard watched her, beyond resigned to her fate as she scrubbed her body like an automaton, then rubbed the soap over her matted hair to work up a lather. When she had finally succeeded in removing over a week’s worth of dirt, sweat, and grime, the guard shoved a blanket that felt like burlap into her hands.

Grateful, she wrapped the rough cloth around her body sarong style and secured the ends between her breasts.

As she’d stood under the spray, she had tried to prepare herself for what would come next. The thought sickened her, but she could do it. She could prostitute herself to this man and maybe buy her freedom. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She was weak from lack of food, exhausted and sapped of her strength. He was going to do what he wanted anyway; she had to try to work it to her advantage.

She swallowed hard as she was marched back across the compound and past the block of tents set up on the perimeter. One was reserved for the general. She’d gotten glimpses of communication equipment in another. There was the cook tent where the general’s meals were prepared. The fourth was a barracks for the guards. The fifth was reserved for important visitors. Since she’d been here, she’d seen two other Asian men—both businessmen, judging by their clothes—come and go. One had spent the night in the tent she was being taken to now.

“It’s about damn time,” the American grumbled when the guard shoved her inside. “Sit. I’ve ordered food. It should arrive any moment.”

Her stomach growled involuntarily, and hope rose out of the ashes of her degradation. He was going to feed her. That had to be good, right?

Seconds later, the general announced himself outside the tent flap and entered, followed by his aide, who set a tray heavy with covered dishes on a small, low, wooden table.

“Excellent. For stamina,” the American said, giving her a predatory wink. “Can’t have you passing out when things get a little rough.”

Nausea roiled in her stomach. She hated the police who had arrested her. Hated the judge who had sentenced her, and the guard who’d delighted in beating her. But this man was the vilest of all. His arrival had raised her hopes of rescue, but he’d turned out to be one more insult to her safety and her sanity. For that, she felt more contempt for him than she did for her captors.

With their big whips and bigger guns, they at least looked the part of villains. This tall, unreasonably handsome American with the perfectly styled dark hair, deep brown eyes, and easy smile was evil and deception incarnate. Pretty on the outside but, inside, nothing but ugliness and depravity.

“Well,” the American said, digging into his backpack, then tossing a string of foil packets onto the table, “let’s get this party started.”

He moved toward the tent flap, all long limbs and athletic grace, then indicated with a lift of his hand that the general could leave now. His smile said he had an agenda that didn’t include spectators.

The general hesitated, then with a glare at Carrie that clearly said, “Please him or else,” he and his aide left.

C
AV WATCHED
C
ARRIE
Granger’s face as she stood awaiting her fate. Whoever had said that eyes were a window to the soul could have been talking about hers. Those blue eyes said volumes about her opinion of him. They also told him that despite the horror she’d gone through, she hadn’t given up. She still had some fight left in her. Clearly, she would like to gut him, skin him, then burn him alive.
After
she cut off his balls.

But she was smarter than that. Even though she saw him as a bastard who had bought her for sex, she understood that he was still her best chance for a ticket out of hell.

Much as he wanted to reassure her, he needed to keep her in the dark until he was certain she wouldn’t give him away. The general had left guards outside the tent and they could potentially hear everything that happened inside.

“Eat.” He pointed toward the table.

Her gaze cut to the food. He could see how badly she wanted and needed it, and how desperately she fought the hunger.

Her control broke and she turned venom-filled eyes back to his face. “I’d rather eat dirt.”

She might be half starved, beaten down by exhaustion and fear, but she still had grit to spare. Good. She was going to need it.

Keeping her in sight, for fear she might attack him if he turned his back on her, he walked over to the table that held the food and his backpack. He fished around inside the pack and came up with a notebook and pen.

“You’re American,” she said letting go of her animosity long enough to appeal to him. “Please. You have to help me.” The slight hint of a Georgia drawl colored her words. “If you can’t take me with you when you leave, please,
please
get a message to my family. Or to the U.S. embassy—”

“I’m not your good Samaritan, sweetheart, so save your breath,” he snapped for the benefit of any ears outside the thin tent walls.

If she’d wanted his balls before, she wanted his heart now. On a stake.

He quickly wrote in the notebook, then held it out to her.

“Go ahead, take it,” he said, knowing that anyone who might be listening would assume he was offering food. “Take it,” he demanded harshly.

Eyes wary, she slowly reached out a hand and, after shooting another distrustful glance his way, lowered her head and read his note.

Don’t react. Wyatt sent me. I’m here to get you home
.

Her head flew up. Her eyes widened with hope and disbelief as she frantically searched his face for confirmation that it was true.

Cav pressed his finger to his lips in warning. One wrong word, one careless action, and this whole thing could blow like a block of C-4.

He reached for the note, tugged it out of her frozen grip, and added,
Play along, Carrie. It’s going to be okay
.

After she read it, she just sort of crumpled. He caught her as her shoulders sagged and her knees buckled.

“Easy,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her sob. “Keep it together. You’ve made it this far. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Small hands pressed against his chest, and her fingers tightened in a death grip on his shirt. “Don’t… don’t leave me… here.”

Aw, God
.

He’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. Always had a great appreciation for the softness and the strengths and the surprises inherent to women. But never had he been so utterly and unexpectedly moved as he was by the collapse of this strong woman’s guard and the raw desperation that caused it.

Careful of the bruise he’d seen on her ribs, he drew her tighter against him because it felt as though she were coming apart in his arms.

“When I leave, you leave,” he promised against her damp hair, and then he felt a subtle shift back to strength in the fragile body pressed against his.

If her momentary collapse had shaken him, her valiant effort to regroup humbled him. Though her body felt delicate and slight, she possessed rock-solid core strength.

Every protective instinct in him roared to life like an enraged lion. No woman should ever have to go through this hell. He fought the knee-jerk burn to make the bastards pay for what they’d done to her. Pay with their blood. Make them sorry they’d ever laid a hand on her. He wanted it with a fervor that had him shaking.

He needed to get a grip. He’d let things get way too personal, way too touchy-feely way too fast. Not his MO. So why?

He swallowed hard, recognizing with brutal honesty that this wasn’t just about her. It was also about turning his back on the CIA when this was over, about dealing with the demons that constantly baited him with the promise of oblivion in scotch.

And it was about Carrie Granger not being the only American on this mountain in need of rescue.

He drew a deep breath and made himself disengage. Now was not the time to indulge in the mind fuck of self-pity. And until he could get a handle on what was happening with his head he needed to be very careful around this woman.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promised her, surprised at the gruffness in his voice. Surprised again when he lifted a hand and gently brushed a fall of blond hair out of her eyes. “Take it to the bank, Carrie. You’re going to be okay now.”

“Thank you.” A world of gratitude, relief, and trust shimmered in her eyes.

Eyes so brave and true, he found himself praying he deserved that trust.

Praying?
Hell, he didn’t pray. And even if he did, prayer wasn’t going to get them out of this. Keeping his head in the game was. Starting now.

“Eat,” he said forcefully for the benefit of the guards. “We need to get some protein in you.”

This time she didn’t hesitate. With one hand latched in a death grip on the blanket between her breasts, she rushed to the table and sat down on the woven matting that covered the dirt floor. Then she tore into the soup, white rice, and chicken curry.

He’d been hungry himself before, but he’d never understood the term
ravenous
until he watched her eat.

“Easy,” he cautioned. Ignoring the warning alarms telling him not to, he reached for the whiskey bottle the general had left. He poured a tall shot and downed it in one swallow. “Slow down or you’re going to make yourself sick.”

He watched her get control again. Couldn’t help but notice that despite the brutality of her captivity, there was no disguising how astonishingly beautiful she was. The bones always told, and hers were amazing. She had high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, and a cupid’s bow upper lip that just begged for attention.

Christ
.

He thought about hitting that bottle one more time… but he knew where that road led and the last thing he wanted to do was let this woman down.