“Let’s move,” Bishop ordered.
One of the men lifted Brandon into his arms. “Hey, sonny, how’d you like to go for a walk?”
“Is Ann coming?”
“I sure am, honey,” she assured him.
“Let’s go, lady,” Bishop said, and grabbed her hand.
Once outside, Brandon, Marie and Guillaume were lifted onto the backs of three of them, and they started in a run down the jungle path. A fourth man knelt down on a knee.
“Climb on,” Bishop said.
“That won’t be necessary. I jog every day,” Ann said.
She bore another one of his black glares. “Okay, but if you slow us up, I’ll have to carry you.”
A hard run through a jungle in a rain was a far different cry from her usual jogging. Ann’s lungs felt near to bursting when they stopped and uncovered a concealed boat.
Bishop and one of the men crouched down to guard the rear as Ann lingered, saying goodbye to the two servants who were returning to their village.
“When those gunmen leave, we return to house,” Guillaume assured her.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” Ann said.
“Let’s get out of here before someone gets killed,” Bishop ordered, his eyes trained on the jungle.
“God be with you,” Ann said. Guillaume took his wife’s hand, and they disappeared into the jungle.
An hour later, off the coast of French Guiana, Ann smiled up gratefully at the freckle-faced airman, who looked as American as a parade on the Fourth of July, as he reached out a helping hand and assisted her into an unmarked helicopter.
Chapter 3
A single light glowed dimly in the cabin of the helicopter. The squad lay sprawled asleep wherever the men could find room.
Ann felt as if they’d been flying for hours, yet the sun had not risen, so she knew she was mistaken. She raised her arm to check the time and realized she wasn’t wearing a watch. She had fled Kourou so hurriedly that morning she’d forgotten to put it on.
The whole series of events remained a mystery to Ann. Clayton’s death. The men who tried to abduct her. These men. Where were they taking Brandon and her? They all seemed friendly enough except for their uptight leader. At least she knew their names now, but nothing more.
Dazed, she leaned back against the cabin wall and closed her eyes. How did she lose control of her life in such a short span of time? She was fleeing South America with only the clothes on her back. No money. Not even a damn watch on her wrist!
Relax, Ann. Try to sleep. But sleep was an impossibility. The chopper’s rotors were noisy, the vibration jerked the craft, the floor was hard and her legs were cramped.
Lord, how I hate helicopters! What am I doing in this crate flying over the Atlantic…that is, if we are over the Atlantic.
She hugged Brandon tighter against her, readjusting his sleeping head in her lap. His nearness was a warm and gratifying reassurance that she had not lost her sanity.
She suddenly felt a prickly sensation and knew she was being watched. Glancing up, she discovered Bishop staring at her under hooded lids. For a brief moment their gazes locked. His expression remained unchanged, and she blushed before shifting her eyes downward.
She wondered what such a man thought about in quiet moments like this. The next mission? A woman? Fearing his enigmatic eyes could read her mind, Ann closed her eyes.
She continued to feel his intense stare.
Ann awoke to discover the chopper was landing. All the men were awake and alert. From her position on the floor, she couldn’t see anything until the freckle-faced crewman opened the door as they touched down. Then the glare of bright sunlight hit her in the eyes.
Two of the men jumped out with pointed rifles, then Bishop got out and swung her to the ground. The other two followed with Brandon.
Bishop took her by the arm while Cassidy moved to her side and put a hand on her elbow, as well. They whisked her toward an unmarked plane standing nearby on the runway. She felt like a prisoner being hustled away to jail.
Curious, she glanced around but all that she saw was a deserted airstrip. No hangars. No tower. Nothing. She couldn’t venture a guess as to their location.
Was it possible these men, in fact, were the ones responsible for Clayton’s death? Maybe the men at the villa merely intended to abduct Brandon and her for ransom.
Ann felt certain about one thing: the long-on-silence, short-on-explanation Bishop was not about to volunteer any information.
Brandon’s boyish laughter penetrated her rumination. Ann turned her head to look back and saw that the one named Bledsoe was carrying the youngster on his shoulders. Thank God there’s a spark of humanity in at least one of these men.
Immediately she regretted her callous attitude. She was foolish and ungrateful, allowing her imagination to run rampant. These men had risked their lives to save her and Brandon.
Under a blush of guilt, she stole a glance at the sculpted profile of Bishop, who was walking beside her. Now that he had wiped off the greasepaint, the man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His nose had clearly been broken at least once, and tiny lines crept from the corners of his eyes; but these features tended to add character to his face, she reflected with the objective eye of a photographer. A thick mustache nestled above a firm mouth with a sensual lower lip. Seasoned by sun and wind, this was not a handsome face by Hollywood standards—no Brad Pitt or Antonio Banderas for sure. No, indeed. But she was willing to stake her professional reputation that women who had gazed into those melancholy, deep-hazel eyes of his had found the face sensuously irresistible.
Daring to intrude on the thoughts of her taciturn guard, Ann said boldly, “I’d like to know where we’re going, Bishop.”
“You’ll find out when the time comes.” That earlier, welcome-sounding American voice now had a decided growl of irritation. But its huskiness, coupled with those bedroom eyes of his, could still play havoc with a girl’s libido.
For heaven’s sake, Ann, there hasn’t been time enough for you to have developed Stockholm Syndrome!
She had had enough of the whole scene and stopped abruptly, shrugged off their hands and with flashing eyes squared off against the two men.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done for Brandon and me, but I’ve tolerated all the pushing and shoving I intend to. Until I start getting some answers from you wardens…watchdogs…or whatever, I’m not going to budge another step.” She folded her arms across her chest to reinforce the declaration.
The party following halted, shuffling impatiently as they looked to their leader. Without saying a word, Bishop swept her up in his arms, carried her onto the plane and then dumped her into what appeared to be a seat.
“Be sure and fasten your seat belt, lady.”
The smug gleam in his hazel eyes taunted her to go for his jugular. However, her dignity prevailed. Instead she bestowed a scathing glower upon him. “Do you have an aversion to heights, Bishop?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem to prefer airplanes without windows. Or haven’t you noticed there are no windows in this plane, either?”
“We’ve been told that after this trip we’ll have earned enough frequent-flyer points to rate one that does.”
His sarcasm was exasperating. “What kind of plane is this, Bishop?”
“You writing a book?”
“An