Swept Away (22 page)

Omega Man? Perhaps once he’d heard what happened, he’d sent them to retrieve Brock’s body
since it might seem unwise to leave a dead FBI agent lying around—harder to investigate a
missing agent than a corpse full of clues.

Up to now, he hadn’t given Omega much credit—thought many aspects of his operation
seemed amateurish. For one, even as mean as Francisco was, the Morales brothers didn’t have
as much hard-core smuggling experience as you’d expect for guys hired to transport millions
of dollars’ worth of goods over a number of shipments. For another, they’d let him into their
business too easy—he should have had to work harder to earn their trust. For a third, they’d
been scheduled to meet directly with Omega on the night of the pickup—and the top man
usually kept a much lower profile in such situations, never letting a little guy like “Jimmy” ID him. But if Omega had sent the Morales boys back out here to get him, maybe he was a little sharper than Brock had suspected.

He could only hope he stayed far enough ahead of Carlos to get away somehow, get back to
Kat somehow, keep her safe somehow. Damn, too many “somehows” in the mix here—but he
couldn’t think about that. Just focus on the moment. One foot in front of the other. Move.
Move.

For some reason, his mind ßashed on what Carlos had said about Brock making a fool of him
in front of Francisco. It sounded juvenile—yet he knew what it was to need your big brother’s
approval, to want so badly to please him, and maybe for some people that never went away. He
wished he could shake Carlos and make him understand: Your brother’s a piece of shit—you
don’t need him.

But Carlos would never believe that. Brock wouldn’t have believed it either, until long after
Bruno went to jail, when he slowly, finally began to understand his brother wasn’t a hero.
He’d just wanted one so bad, he supposed, needed someone to believe in. So in a strange way,
he knew where Carlos was coming from. Hell, plunk the Denton boys down in Guatemala and they could have become the Morales brothers. A sobering thought.

And this was no time for sobering thoughts—keep your mind on business here.

Behind him, limbs cracked beneath Carlos’s feet, sounding like they were breaking right next
to Brock’s ears. His chest pounded, and he dripped with sweat.

That’s when he tripped and went tumbling, head over heels, into a ravine that had seemed to
materialize out of nowhere. He landed on his ass with a groan, then looked up to find himself
in an old dried-up creek bed—only about five feet deep—which probably led rainwater to the
ocean.

About the time he got his bearings, he heard Carlos fall, too, with a hard grunt. But not right
next to him—farther away, out of his line of sight. Realizing the small scrubby tree growing at an angle to his right provided some cover, he stayed very still—and listened.

“Where are you, you fucking fed?” Carlos sounded madder than before, madder than Brock
had ever heard him. “I’ll find you, you asshole. I’ll find you and kill you if it’s the last fucking
thing I do!”

He hadn’t thought Carlos could kill him or Kat—but maybe the dynamic was shifting here.
Maybe a hard run through the hot jungle had been the impetus Carlos needed to transform into
his brother. Maybe calling him a stupid son of a bitch had reminded him more painfully that
“Jimmy” wasn’t his friend.

Brock considered his next move. He couldn’t stay there indefinitely—Carlos knew he was
somewhere in the ravine, so now it was only a matter of searching it. And he could run, but
that would only put them back in the same exhausting chase—and if Carlos was getting more
trigger-happy, might earn him that bullet in the back.

Exploring the ground around him, he spotted a small, smooth stone. Large enough to make a sound if thrown. Small enough to be cast a good distance. He curled his hand around it and
looked toward Carlos’ s voice, then beyond the gully toward the part of the island they’d not yet
traveled.

Would be a hell of a throw to try to make. About a million slash pines stood like obstacles, just
waiting to stop the rock in its flight.

But the worst that could happen would be drawing Carlos to him. And if he just sat here, that
would occur soon enough anyway. The best that could happen would be to lob that sucker way
on the other side of the ravine and send Carlos there. Then Brock could double back and look
for Kat.

Brock used his eyes like a gunsight and spied a straight path through the trees. Then he drew back his arm and took aim. Now or never. He let the rock go, willing its path, watching it sail, sail, sail, until finally it landed hard enough to make that telltale shush in the brush. Bull’s-eye.

A second later, Carlos could be heard scampering up the opposite side of the ravine, then
barreling forward, yelling, “I got you now, you son of a bitch, I got you now!”

No, Carlos, you don’t. At least not yet.

Kat ran blindly, with no idea where she was going or where she’d been. Was someone behind
her? She didn’t know. In the distance, she heard noise, movement through the trees, but was
too afraid to stop long enough to figure out if it was headed in her direction. God, Brock,
where are you? Please be okay. Please be okay. Please let this all be a dream.

The last wish she knew she wouldn’t get, but the first one—maybe.

She watched her feet to keep from falling as she ran; she used her hands to gather her skirt
around her thighs to keep it from snagging on low branches or thorns.

Then—ooompf! She hadn’t seen the broad chest until she’d collided into it, hard—and she
jerked her eyes up with a start. God help me.

Relief flooded her when she met Brock’s gaze, and she collapsed in his strong arms. She’d
never been happier to see anyone in her life.

“Are you okay, honey?” he asked, eyes wrought with worry. She nodded. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t hesitate to throw her arms around his neck and pull him into a ferocious hug, which he returned, and despite the hideous circumstances, she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt warmer or
safer.

Finally, it was she who pulled back, just enough to look at him. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t get away.”

“Don’t worry about me, kitten—I always get away.”

She drew in a deep breath, trying to believe, trying to calm down. “And then I worried you’d
never find me.”

It surprised her when he actually quirked a soft grin. “You made it pretty easy. You ran in a
circle.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “Oh. Well, I guess this means I wouldn’t make a very good FBI agent.”

He gave his head a short shake of agreement, then pulled her hands from his shoulders and
held them. “But it’s good you didn’t make it far, because I found a decent place to hide.” He
jerked his head slightly to the right. “Come on, let’s go.”

After all the running it felt strange to be walking at a composed—even if brisk—pace through
the forest. Her heartbeat slowed as she became aware that the only human sounds to be heard were their own, and the first true sense of calm she’d felt since her stroll on the beach this
morning washed over her.

After only a few short minutes, she found herself descending, with Brock’s help, into a small
gorge cut into the island like a seam, almost invisible until they were upon it. She slid a little on
the steep bank, but he placed his big hands at her hips, steadying her until she reached the more
level ground below.

They proceeded up the gully until finally he said, “Here,” and nestled them both into a slight bow in the wall with protective growth around it—a small, aromatic red bay tree on one side
and some plants spilling over on the other.

Brock’s arms looped around her waist from behind, and she leaned back against him, too tired
to resist resting her head on his chest. She was on the verge of asking him more about the
people chasing them—when they both heard someone walking through the brush overhead.
She tensed and felt his hold on her tighten.

No more rushing, running, making lots of noise—no, this was a quieter search, slower and
more ominous-feeling. As if maybe the bad guys had just figured out what she had—they
could take their time hunting because she and Brock had no place to go, they were trapped. The more close encounters she had with these scary people, the less her “needle in a jungle” theory
seemed to apply.

“I know you’re here somewhere, government man, and I’m going to find you eventually.”

The voice held the same thick accent, yet sounded different from the guy who’d discovered
them by the rocks. Must be that first guy they’d seen. Great. It reminded her they were being
stalked from two different directions and made their chances of survival feel even more grim.

“I’ve got all day. And all night, too. I won’t be leaving this island until I see you dead, fed.”
Then he laughed. “Dead, fed—rhymes.” Despite the intense heat of the island interior, a chill ran up Kat’ s spine. She wished desperately she could turn her head, just to see Brock’s face, just to make eye contact since she knew it would make her feel safer—but she was afraid to do even that.

Finally, the creepy guy’s footsteps passed slowly by and seemed to be moving on in that stalkerlike leisurely pace. She worked to remain totally still, despite the itch that had just
developed on her ankle.

Of course, within seconds, the itch was driving her mad, but she could still hear light, distant
movement above, so she bit her lip, then gritted her teeth and tried to think of anything but
itches or ankles until she thought she’d lose her mind.

Finally, all noise faded, but she still wasn’t sure it was safe to move, because she wasn’t sure
of anything anymore—so she turned her head, ever so slowly, to find Brock’s sexy eyes mere
inches from hers. She moved her lips. I. Have. An. Itch.

He leaned slightly forward until she felt the heat of his breath on her ear. “Want me to scratch it
for you, kitten?”

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to smack him. Instead of doing either, she let the slightest of grins sneak out. “I was merely asking,” she whispered, “if it was safe to move.”

“Ah, my mistake,” he said, his mouth still way too temptingly close.

She found the strength to yank her gaze away and went to work scratching her ankle. And now
that it seemed safe to talk again, she asked quietly, “How many guys are chasing us?”

“Two. The guy who found us back by the rocks, that’s Carlos. He’s the nice one.”

She stopped scratching and flashed a look of disbelief. If the maniac with the gun who said he couldn’t let either of them go was the nice one, then She pointed up above them. “And that
guy?”

“Francisco. The mean one.”

Well, maybe that explained the menacing feeling that had coursed through her veins when he’d
been lurking up there, sounding like a whack job. “Um, back by the rocks, why did that guy
call you Jimmy?”