Seduction Under Fire (20 page)

Seizing hold of her hips, he pulled her toward him until the tip of his hardness nestled at the entrance of her body. “You have me, Camille.” His voice, low and raw, surprised him. He sounded as desperate as he felt.

With his hands under her hips, he surged into her. She met his challenging pace, demanding it as hard as he was willing to give. When she opened her mouth in a moan, he claimed it with his tongue, wondering if she tasted the lingering spice of her arousal on his lips, as he did.

The moment he felt his release building, he slowed the rhythm of his thrusts and reached a hand between them. As his fingers worked, he dived into the skin of her neck with his teeth and lips until she tensed and stopped breathing. Then she shattered with violent intensity around him. He moved his hand to her hips and thrust deeply into her pulsing core. With a guttural sound, he spilled himself into her.

Wrapping her tightly in his arms, he lowered his head to her shoulder, breathing hard, reveling in the feel of their bodies joined together. She clung to him, locking her ankles around his waist, squeezing his still-pulsing erection inside her. He knew, unequivocally, that he’d never let her go.

* * *

By midday on Monday, they were in final stages of preparation to board the four o’clock ferry. Once they confirmed that the cartel truck had embarked, Aaron walked to the terminal to purchase tickets. Camille stayed behind to prep their weapons and perform a final check of the tracking device and explosives.

As she strapped on her ankle holster, Aaron walked through the hotel room door. “I love it when you go into warrior mode.” He smacked her backside. “It’s sexy as hell. Maybe you can wear that to bed sometime.”

She smiled indulgently, relieved that his playful side had returned in full force. Anything but the intense, dead-serious man he became during sex. “Do you have our tickets?”

“Yep. Had to double the bribe I wanted to pay to the ticket guy, but it’s done.”

Camille hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. “Let’s get to work.”

Camille and Aaron boarded the ferry with at least fifty other people. They each wore hats and black shirts they’d picked up that morning, all with tourist slogans, and sunglasses. Camille carried the backpack with the tracking device wrapped in a change of clothes, should she need a fresh disguise. Aaron had a backpack, too, with a change of clothes, a flashlight and duct tape, among other items.

Another bribe gained them entry without passports to validate the names on their tickets. Once past the ticket taker, they descended the stairs to the auto level and slipped to a section packed tightly with vehicles whose drivers had already left for the upper decks. The cartel delivery truck sat sandwiched between an RV and a minivan near the center of the boat.

The smell, a heady blend of gasoline and car exhaust, was nauseating. Camille breathed through her mouth but was supremely annoyed by the distracting urge to throw up.

Aaron tested each door they passed until he found one unlocked. They hustled into the backseat of a tiny, rusted gray car in case the ferry personnel did a final check that the level was cleared of people before locking it for the journey. Aaron lay on the floor of the car and Camille dropped on top of him. There they waited, embracing tightly, two bundles of white-hot nerves.

They heard their entombment one sound at a time, each echoing through the cavernous chamber with unmistakable clarity—the gears grinding as the ramp lifted, the clunk of the light switch turning off followed by the receding hum of the fluorescent bulbs into silence, the stairwell door sealing with a dull thud and, finally, the turn of the lock.

The rumble of the ferry motor rose to a roar. Low haunting moans and creaks told them the ship had started its trip across the sea.

Camille rose, blinking and looking around, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was disorienting to realize there would be no adjustment—there wasn’t even the barest hint of light for her eyes to filter. She grabbed her backpack, opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

Aaron emerged behind her and shut the door. Camille cringed as the sound reverberated around them, even though she knew there was no logical reason to be stealthy. They were alone.

Not far away, a second car door shut. Aaron’s arms stiffened around Camille. A man cleared his throat. The faint light of a cell phone reflected off car windows two aisles over. They stood frozen, listening as the man, in heavily accented English, spoke the words running through Camille’s head.

“Someone else is here.”

It was probably a stowaway, someone too cheap to pay the price of a ferry ticket, someone like them who had hidden until the coast was clear. Just because Camille and Aaron lived in constant awareness of danger didn’t mean the rest of the world operated that way, too.

Hard-soled boots tapped a steady, unhurried pace along the floor, growing louder and closer. A flashlight flipped on, scanning over the cars like a floodlight at a prison sweeps the exercise yard at night. Camille and Aaron ducked, hunching next to the car door. This was no stowaway.

Maybe the ferry company kept a security officer with the autos to guard against vandalism. If that were the case, the risk to Camille and Aaron was potentially more substantial than being trapped overnight with a half dozen cartel thugs. They were in the country illegally and each was packing multiple weapons...including enough dynamite to sink the ferry.

Whether they were dealing with ferry security or the Cortez Cartel was immaterial at the moment, though. At the unmistakable
chink-chink
of a pump action shotgun cocking, Aaron dug his fingers into Camille’s arm and pulled her under the car.

Camille lay rigidly next to Aaron, listening to the blood pounding under her skin in syncopated rhythm with the boots clicking toward them along the metal floor.

She tucked the pack with the tracking device against the inside of the car’s rear tire, either hiding the evidence or keeping it safe for later—however the next critical minutes played out. When the light of the flashlight was bright enough for her to see Aaron’s silhouette on the floor next to her, she nudged him, then scooted out the other side of the car into the aisle. Aaron followed.

They crouched in the shadows, their guns pointed at the ground, their eyes fixated on the flashlight as it swung left and right, searching. Though it threatened to expose them, the flashlight gave Aaron and Camille the upper hand. They knew precisely where their opponent was, his direction and speed, whereas he could have no idea how many people he was dealing with or where they were.

Because the vehicles were laid out in a grid of even rows, Camille and Aaron’s options were limited to either moving in the same direction as their pursuer—beating him to the rear wall of the auto level and potentially cornering themselves—or the opposite, which meant they had to walk right past the person searching for them.

Keeping low, Aaron stepped toward the light. It was the same choice Camille would have made. He kept the pace slow and steady. Camille moved lightly on the balls of her feet in a crouched position under the level of the car windows they passed.

When the light swept over the car they were behind, they molded themselves against the tires until the beam passed over the tops of their heads. They continued moving until they stood on the opposite side of a small pickup truck from the person searching for them.

Peering through the truck windows, they were finally able to size up their opponent—a single man, tall and bulky. It was impossible to tell if he wore a security uniform or if he was a cartel operative, but he was indeed carrying a shotgun that he steadied by tucking under his arm. It was an odd choice of weapon because it required two hands to steady and fire. He would have to either drop the flashlight or hold it in his mouth to shoot accurately.

Camille’s confidence blossomed. They could get this guy. Piece of cake.

After the man walked away from them, Aaron rose and jogged to the end of the aisle, Camille trailing him closely. When Aaron stopped, the rubber sole of his sneaker squeaked. They dropped to their stomachs next to the bumper of the first car on the row. Aaron cursed under his breath.

The flashlight beam grew erratic, waving wildly, then bobbing as the man trotted in their direction. Aaron unzipped his pack. Camille’s eyes had adjusted enough to the dimness that she could make out the roll of tape and shirt he removed.

In the barest whisper, they hashed out the details of Aaron’s plan. He shoved the shirt into his pocket, wore the tape like a bracelet and picked up his gun. “Let’s move.”

They sprinted across the aisle the man was running on and ducked behind the nearest car. There were several feet of space between that car and the motor home behind it. Camille crept behind Aaron into the shadow between the two vehicles, completely concealed behind the height of the motor home, and concentrated on the beam of light as it grew brighter. The
clip-clop
of the man’s shoes grew louder, closer.

She withdrew a D-volt battery from her pocket, one of two she’d grabbed in case the flashlight ran out of juice. She threw it. It landed with a clink several cars in front of them. The beam of light swerved toward the noise as the man jogged nearer.

They waited until he passed them. Then they burst forth and slammed into him, crushing him against a car hood. Camille pressed her gun to his temple. There was no need to speak. He got her message loud and clear and raised his arms in surrender.

Aaron disarmed him and took the flashlight and cell phone. Their captive twisted around, trying to see who had accosted him, but Aaron was smart enough not to reveal their identities and shone the flashlight into the man’s face. He jolted and closed his eyes against the brightness.

Aaron and Camille shared a questioning look. She didn’t recognize the man. Could be a cartel operative, could be ferry security. Aaron tore a strip of tape and affixed it over the man’s mouth. The T-shirt went over his head. He crossed the man’s wrists behind him and secured them with tape.

They marched their captive to the old, gray beater they’d hidden in initially. Aaron shoved him into the front passenger seat and taped his still-blindfolded head and torso to the seatback, rendering him immobile from the waist up.

As an extra precaution, Camille snapped both the interior doorknobs off. Even if the guy managed to wiggle a hand free, he wouldn’t be able to escape. The owner of the car would be in for a shock the next morning, but Camille and Aaron planned on being long gone by then—before whoever the man called on his cell phone had a chance to spot them.

She retrieved the pack from under the car and they worked their way to the delivery truck. They scooted along the ground on their backs until they were staring at the truck’s filthy undercarriage. Aaron assumed flashlight duty while Camille searched for the perfect nook in the space between the frame and the floor of the truck bed, finding one such spot near the front wheel axle.

The explosives that had seemed unassuming as they sat in the pack felt volatile and deadly as she rested them on her chest. The dynamite sticks were bundled together with tape, then strapped to a 6-volt battery and topped with a cell-phone detonator and the tracking device. Once they’d secured Rosalia’s safety, all Camille would need to do was dial that phone’s number using the cell phone in her pocket and...
boom.

Her hands, sweating and shaky with nerves, fumbled the duct tape Aaron handed her as she picked at its tacky edge, trying to get it started. Twice, she dropped it.

Aaron took the tape and pulled out a length. “We’ve got all night. Try to relax.”

“There’s dynamite sitting on my heart. I’m not going to relax.”

“All right, then, let’s get it over with.”

Camille glanced sideways at him, then tucked the bomb above the axle. She wound the duct tape around the bomb and the frame over and over again until she was satisfied that no matter how many potholes the truck was bound to hit between the ferry terminal and the warehouse, the device wouldn’t move or fall off.

Aaron jostled the device a bit to double-check her handiwork. “That’s good enough. Let’s find someplace to crash for the rest of the night.”

He helped Camille up and used the flashlight to check on their captive, who had remained silent and unmoving in the car. He led the way to a pickup truck that gave them a clear view of the man should they point a beam of light his direction. Camille stepped over various tools and ropes in the truck bed and sat against the cab. Aaron settled next to her and slung an arm around her shoulders.

In less time than she would have liked, the flashlight flickered and dimmed, then went out. In the darkness, Camille and Aaron instinctively pulled closer together.

“I don’t think we should use our other flashlight, especially since we don’t have enough backup batteries anymore,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night and who knows why we might need them later.”

“You’re right. Good call.”

Camille had never feared darkness. But here, in the guts of a rusty ship amid cars lined up like metal caskets, with the stomach-turning stench of car exhaust and the ghostly creaking of the ship joints, it took her only a few minutes to realize how terrible this journey would have been without Aaron. The weight of his arm around her, his fingers entwined with hers, gave her the strength to keep the shadows at bay.

He pushed his watch light on and checked the time. “Only fifteen hours to go. Wanna make out?” He planted a kiss on her nose. “Oops, missed your mouth. Let me try again.”

He groped her face with his fingers, pretending he couldn’t find her lips. When he poked her in the ear, Camille smiled in spite of herself.

“Aha,” he exclaimed, pretending to find her mouth. She felt the smile on his lips when he kissed her, as though he found himself highly amusing.

“You’re a silly man.”

“Yes, but you secretly love that about me.”

She started to chuckle, but panic, sudden and violent, hit her like a sucker punch to her gut. She struggled for composure, but her brain was spinning so fast out of control that she feared she might pass out.