Her nerves were raw, and she could feel herself coming apart. Her fright, Clayton’s death and not knowing the reason behind it all had driven her to the brink of losing her control. Brandon’s need for her was the only thing keeping her from breaking down.
To occupy herself Ann tidied the room. The task helped to take her mind off her misery until she picked up a framed photograph that had been knocked to the floor. Her eyes misted as she gazed at the cherished face of the distinguished-looking man in his sixties. She had snapped the photograph of Clayton Burroughs the day they met.
“Oh, Clayton.” Sobbing, she sank in despair to the floor.
Chapter 2
Mike Bishop awoke with a start when Cassidy nudged him with his foot. “I think I just saw the signal.”
Saturated with perspiration, he sat up and looked around hastily at the men stretched out on the deck. All were sleeping except for Dave Cassidy at the helm.
Mike pulled out his binoculars and trained the glasses on the shore. The infrared lenses distinguished a ragged coastline capped by a dense jungle. As the boat drew nearer, a light blinked three times from the shore, the prearranged signal from the local guide. They were on course.
Frowning, he lowered the glasses, removed a black wool cap and then wiped his brow on the sleeve of his sweater. He ran his fingers through the clipped hair matted to his head and rose to his feet to stretch his cramped muscles. He was hot and sweaty and would have liked to pull off the black sweater that clung to him in wet patches, shuck the pants and boots and dive into the inviting water.
Despite the undulating movement of the small craft, his step was firm, his back ramrod straight as he crossed the deck.
“We made good time.”
Cassidy nodded. “You think the woman and kid are still alive?”
“I’m not psychic! Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s chewing on your ass?” Cassidy asked. “You’ve been uptight since the briefing.”
“Nothing. Nothing’s bugging me,” Mike growled. He returned to his former seat, picked up a round tin and began smearing black greasepaint on his face. When he was through, only the whites of his eyes could be discerned in the darkness. Passing the tin to Cassidy, he settled back and began to reflect on the mission ahead.
From the quick briefing they’d received from Prince Charming, a British national had been murdered in French Guiana. A contact informed them that the man’s six-year-old grandson and American assistant, Ann Hamilton, whom the Agency assigned the code names of Boy Blue and Snow White, had reached a prearranged rescue site, but were now being held prisoners, presumably by those responsible for the Brit’s murder. And since his squad was on a training exercise in neighboring Guyana, they were immediately dispatched to go in fast and get the woman and kid. And not make it an international incident. That meant not to take out any of the abductors. What the hell was with the Agency? Did Baker and Waterman think they could just walk through the door and the bastards would hand them the prisoners?
For the dozenth time Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out the faxed photograph given to him at the briefing. He stared at the woman’s face in the picture. Deep-violet eyes veiled with thick dark lashes stared out at him from the photograph. Shoulder-length golden hair feathered in soft curls around a flawless face blessed with a small straight nose and high cheekbones.
Man, she was hot!
He ran his finger absently across her wide, generous mouth. What in hell had been with this Burroughs? The guy had to have known the risks. Only a damn fool would bring a woman along on an assignment.
On second thought, he’d cut the guy some slack. Maybe the poor fool didn’t know. Baker had said that Burroughs wasn’t actually an agent. That Waterman had asked Burroughs for his help.
Why had Queen Mother asked this Burroughs for help? Espionage was no job for amateurs. So now the poor bastard’s dead for his effort.
Mike felt a tightening in his chest. And by this time, the woman and kid are probably dead, too.
When Cassidy began to rouse the men, Mike refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He was proud of this team. Known as the Dwarf Squad in the Agency, he, Cassidy, Bolen and Fraser were former Navy SEALs; Williams and Bledsoe had been with the British SAS. Each man was a specialist in a particular field. They had served together as a team for the past three years, and he trusted all of them. Would stake his life on the performance of any one of them. Mike smiled wryly—he’d often had to.
There was nothing to distinguish one of them from the other. They wore no identification. Dressed alike. On this mission, each of them carried an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. In addition they all carried a Silver Trident knife, a garrote, grenades and six extra clips of ammo strapped to their waists.
The team never carried survival rations. They survived on whatever the land offered.
The craft touched shore, and they slipped into the water and beached the boat. At the sound of a crackling leaf all six weapons swung toward the man who stepped out of the brush. He identified himself as the contact they were expecting.
“Burroughs’s house three kilomètre,” the man explained, holding up three fingers as he struggled with English. He pointed to a spot on the map that Bishop had extracted from a waterproof packet. “I see nine, maybe ten go into house.”
“Did they all have weapons?”
“Oui.”
“Automatic weapons?” Mike pursued.
“I not know, monsieur.”
“What about servants?”
“Only Guillaume Sellier and his wife.”
“Are they friendly?”
“I think yes.”
Seeing there was no more information to be gleaned, Mike nodded abruptly. “Williams, Bledsoe, you two have Boy Blue. Bolen and Fraser, the servants. Cassidy and I will take Snow White. Conceal the boat and we’ll move out.”
Armed with only a machete, their guide slipped silently into the jungle. “Williams, Bledsoe, take the point.” The two men followed the man into the forest.
Cassidy came over to him. “Well, we made it this far. Wonder if we’ve been spotted.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Mike said. He shifted his gaze to the dense foliage surrounding them. Not a leaf stirred. “It’s damn quiet.”
Cassidy’s smile flashed whitely against the greasepaint on his face. “We’ll get them out, Mike. I’ve got good vibes about this mission.”
Mike’s face slashed into a grim line. “You said that about Beirut, too.”
Mike’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. The closer they got to the house, the faster it beat. His hand holding the rifle was clammy and sweaty. He knew he had to get a hold on himself, but he could only think of what they might find when they entered the house. What if the prisoners were dead? He couldn’t forget those violet eyes staring at him from that photograph. The time had come to get out of the business; he was losing his objectivity.
Suddenly they were there, no more time for what-ifs. The men halted, awaiting orders. He sent the guide back to his village to protect the man’s identity in the event the mission fell apart.
Stay focused, Bishop. Don’t lose your objectivity or you’ll endanger the squad as well as the woman and kid. He mustn’t let his emotions muddy the water. So why in hell was he fighting the urge to run up to the house and burst through the front door?
Mike shook his head to clear his muddled mind and concentrated on the mission. A brick wall surrounded the house. A damn brick wall! Bad enough he was battling mental obstacles, now he was confronted