Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (17 page)

"No, no, no," Jeremiah muttered under his breath.

It took Emma a moment to understand the reason for his protest. The one he'd nicknamed "Chubby" was among those getting off the bus. The instant they disembarked, eight more men, all armed to the teeth, climbed in to replace them. As they moved down the aisle to ogle the victims, Jeremiah's head bowed and his shoulders slumped, but not only to avoid their notice. The odds that they would be rescued shortly had suddenly evaporated. He had to be as heartbroken as she was.

Stretching a hand across the aisle, she rubbed the muscular swell of his upper arm while marveling that they found themselves in this bizarre situation in the first place.

Who would have thought that she'd wind up a hostage in Mexico with her favorite former student? Life sure hadn't pulled any punches for her. From her parents' deaths over a decade earlier, to Eddie's abandonment, to winding up kidnapped with her daughter when she was supposed to be on a fun-filled cruise—she had to be cursed. Maybe she'd done something awful in a past life and was paying for it in this one.

Sammy awakened as the fresh wave of guerillas shone flashlights in the
gringos
' eyes, while making comments Emma was grateful Sammy couldn't understand. The leader, who had dozed for most of the trip, snarled at the newcomers to sit down.

The bus continued its tortuous route to an unknown destination. A minute later, it stopped in what was clearly an industrial side of the city before a walled enclosure topped with barbed wire. A guerilla dismounted in order to unlock the gate and hold it open.

With a puff of noxious smoke, the bus crept twenty more feet into a parking area that fronted a cinderblock building, coughed one more time, and died.

Emma regarded the barred, blacked out windows of what appeared to be an abandoned two-story factory and quailed. The cinderblock structure had once been covered in adobe, but much of it had fallen off, leaving bare patches that resembled open sores. The windows on the upper level had all been boarded with plywood. At least, the water tank perched on the flat roof suggested they would have running water.

But how long would this prison be their home?

Craterface jumped to his feet and brandished his weapon. "Everyone up!" he yelled, prompting fearful murmurs from his captives.

She rose on spongy knees, clinging to Sammy who hugged her from behind. Jeremiah led the way, keeping firm hold of her hand as he escorted them up the aisle and off the bus. In a line, they tramped from the bus into the dark, musty building. Their footsteps echoed off a stone floor. They came to an uncertain halt. The door clanged shut and halogen lights blinked on with a loud bang as someone threw a fuse.

Emma's dismayed gaze plumbed the large room. Cement floors, exposed pipes, and rough walls all contributed to the inhospitable atmosphere. The guerillas had made themselves as comfortable as possible, stringing hammocks between cinderblock pillars and erecting tables and folding chairs. Given the quantity of personal items strewn about, they had been living here for some time.

"
Arriba
!" one of the guerillas shouted, pointing toward a staircase with his AK-47.

The Americans marched obediently up the stairs and through a steel door to a second-story chamber much like the first, with hammocks hanging from pegs on the pillars. But the windows at this level were boarded from the inside rather than blackened. She was heartened to see toilet facilities at the rear.

"
Bienvenidos a su nueva casa
," the pock-faced leader mocked, hitching a thumb through a belt loop while training his rifle on his captives with his other hand. Welcome to your new home. "Ju will estay here until jur family pays
el rescate
." His dark eyes landed on Emma and slid with oily interest toward her daughter.

Emma tugged Sammy behind her.

"Tonight ju eat and esleep. Tomorrow ju tell me who will pay to see you lif. If ju are estill jere when the food is gone," he pointed toward a stack of boxes in the corner, "I will sell ju to someone else or kill ju." He then turned toward two of his underlings issuing orders in rapid-fire Spanish.

Those men headed toward the boxes and began to empty one of them, unloading bottled water and stacks of home-baked tortillas, the scent of which brought an unexpected rumble to Emma's stomach. At least, they wouldn't be going hungry—not tonight anyway.

As the hostages stood in an uneasy knot consuming their first meal together, Emma took a headcount. Of the roughly twenty-five people who'd boarded the ferry that morning, only thirteen remained—the three of them, the elderly couple, three middle-aged sisters traveling with the teen who'd tried to run; the tattooed man named Joe, his girlfriend, plus a young couple who might have been on their honeymoon.

Too shocked to speak, they consumed their rationed tortillas in silence and drained their water bottles while the head guerilla orbited them slowly, taking stock of his prize. His gaze slid repeatedly toward Jeremiah.

Wondering why, Emma glanced over and realized that, unlike the rest of the Americans, Jeremiah wasn't trembling or staring vacantly into space. Even with his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him, he gave off an air of silent resistance that the guerilla leader had clearly taken note of.

"Ju," he said suddenly, prompting Jeremiah to glance up at him then back down at the floor.

The leader swaggered closer. "
Cómo te llamas?
" he demanded.

"Jeremiah," he said to the man's scuffed boots.

"
Y qué haces?
"

Jeremiah shook his head, pretending not to understand though Emma knew his Spanish to be better than hers.

"What ju do for work?" the man translated.

"I'm a doctor," Jeremiah said without a second's hesitation.

Surprise over his quick response widened Emma's eyes. Of course, he couldn't tell them what he really did.

The leader looked him up and down. "
Un médico
?" he asked thoughtfully.

Jeremiah nodded.

The guerilla stepped closer still, and Emma's heart began to thud in dread at the calculated look in his beady eyes. Jeremiah visibly tensed as he stretched out a hand to lift the sleeve of Jeremiah's green T-shirt, exposing the powerful contours of his upper arm.

"How ju get so estrong?" the man demanded, watching his captive's response through narrowed eyes.

"Triathalon," Jeremiah answered. "I swim, bike, and run."

"Hmph." Craterface dropped his sleeve and stepped back. Given his expression, he suspected he was being lied to. As he addressed his underlings in Spanish, Emma was able to translate his warning.
Keep an eye on this one. Kill him if he causes any trouble.

"
Sí, jefe
," several men muttered while eying Jeremiah mistrustfully.

The tortilla she had just swallowed moved painfully down her throat.

"
Si es médico, me podría arreglar el pie
," one of them suggested, pointing toward a hole in his boot through which a stream of blood continued to trickle. For the first time, Emma realized he was injured and clearly suffering, given the sheen of sweat on his pallid face. It was obvious he hoped Jeremiah could tend to his injury.

"
Mañana,
" the leader declared, waving aside the suggestion. "
Ahora, tienen que dormir
." Right now they have to sleep. He pointed toward the back of the room. "
Hay dos baños, allí
. Ju all wash, ju keep clean, and no get sick. Then ju esleep here
en las hamacas
. Go," he added waving them off.

As a group, they turned toward the two bathrooms standing side by side against the back wall. The locks on either door had been removed. With civility and consideration, each hostage took turns using the facilities, some of them in pairs.

Emma and Sammy went in together. Wanting to normalize their situation as much as possible, Emma instructed her daughter to brush her teeth with a finger. She bent over the sink splashing water onto her face and under her arms, grateful not to have to see her reflection, as the mirror had been taken down. She used the skirt on her sundress to dry off.

Seeing Sammy's red-rimmed eyes well with tears, she turned and cupped her daughter's face. "We're going to be all right, sweetie," she insisted.

But would they? Worry gnawed at her as she considered how the two of them would survive if something were to happen to Jeremiah. Already, their captors considered him a liability. If they knew what he did for a living and who was probably out there looking for him, they'd shoot him where he stood.

And for herself, she had no idea where the money would come from to secure her and Sammy's release. Her parents had left nothing of any real value when they'd died except the home they'd lived in, which she and Juliet had sold to pay off their college loans. The best that she could hope for was that Jeremiah's SEALs found and rescued them before something irreparable happened.

Think positive
, she ordered herself.
Even now, help is on the way.

Funny how quickly she had adopted Jeremiah's ideas on harnessing the brain's powers. Given the circumstances, willing a positive outcome was all she could do anyway. For Sammy's sake, she would will it with all of her might.

"We're together," she said, pulling her close for a reassuring hug. "We're going to get through this."

* * *

"I don't think I can sleep," Juliet admitted, staring at one of the two beds in their affordable but surprisingly luxurious accommodations in Playa del Carmen.

The clock by the bed read 2 a.m. They'd had to sneak off the cruise ship using the employee entrance. Once on the pier, they'd scouted out a boat in San Miguel to ferry them from Cozumel to the mainland. The driver had proven so inebriated that Tristan ended up taking over the boat while their driver tossed his cookies overboard.

Juliet had never been more grateful for another person's skills and abilities than at that moment. Tristan had proven just as good at maneuvering a watercraft as he been at racing his four-wheeler. By the time they motored up to the pier at Playa del Carmen and leaped off with their bags, every shop, bar, and even the police station were locked up tightly. Not a soul traversed the streets. And there was certainly no way to rent a car or motorcycle. They'd had no choice but to head for the nearest motel and stay put until morning.

"Nothing else we can do," Tristan declared, stripping off his T-shirt and marching toward the sink in the room with his shaving kit.

Juliet stopped noticing the cutesy details of their ocean-side bungalow and stared in fascination at the screaming eagle inked onto his back. It wasn't at all like her, but she immediately thought of
something
they could do besides sleeping. Her heart began to thud. In a weird, detached way, it would take her mind off her fear that she would lose what little family she had left.

Tristan pulled a bottle of mouthwash out of his bag, tossed back a swig, and met her gaze in the mirror as he started swishing. He must have read her thoughts—or perhaps it was the desperate and want-filled look on her face—because he suddenly froze, spit out the mouthwash, and turned to look at her.

"You said you'd rather be my teammate than my rebound lover," he reminded her.

She
had
said that, and she wasn't about to change her mind in the long-term. But this was different.

"I need a distraction," she admitted simply. "It's the only way I'm going to get any sleep."

He drew a deep breath that caused his tan chest to swell. His abs rippled as he blew it out slowly. Thoughts she couldn't begin to interpret flickered in his dark-blue eyes. "I think I can help," he offered with self-assurance.

An inexplicable trembling seized her. Before she lost all courage and chickened out completely, she marched up to him, plucked the mouthwash from his hands and sipped enough to rinse out her own mouth. Their gazes locked. Anticipation sizzled through her bloodstream to the tips of her toes. She spat and rinsed with water, wiped her lips with a clean towel, then threw herself at him.

Absorbing the impact of her body like it was nothing, he pulled her closer, lifting her off the floor and freeing her to wrap her thighs around his hips. She clung to him, fusing her mouth with his. Their tongues tangled for the first time, shocking her with how erotic it felt to really taste him.

He turned with her, pinning her between the wall and his hard body.

Wallowing in the sheer breadth of his shoulders, Juliet raked the smooth skin of his back with her short nails. His minty, clean-cut American taste made her want to consume all of him. She kissed him more deeply, aware of the hard ridge at the front of his jeans that was riding the heated valley between her thighs.

He pulled her against it, fanning a flame that burned brighter and hotter.

Primitive and powerful desires overtook her, making her a creature of instinct. With whispered instructions to let go, she gained her freedom. Sliding down his lean body, clear to the floor, she tackled the button and fly that kept his jeans on his hips.

He reached for the wall as if needing support to keep standing. "You don't have to," he said, his voice rougher than she'd heard before.

But by then she'd already tugged his zipper down and peeled the elastic band of his boxer briefs away from his straining member.