It would matter if Eloisa weren’t misbehaving. El Presidente was a widower his first six months in office, and Eloisa del Garcia was the acting first lady. It gave her far too much power and two weeks with her was plenty. He pushed out of the chair and walked to the doorway, the entrance wide and leading to another room. The corridor between was broad enough to hold a banquet and in the vast room, the echoing beat of the helicopter blades alerted him. Garcia’s wife was returning.
A guard came around the corner and stopped dead, lowering his weapon. Ramos took a few steps, his body not cooperating, and he saw the pity he’d grown to hate. He reached his hand out, and the man came to him, shouldering his weight.
I’m going to kill the fucking bitch.
As soon as he figured out how she was murdering him.
Diego Salazar devised a quick plan in the air, at his President’s request.
Secure the residence, the Vice President, and any suspects. He didn’t have to be told. It was his job to know. He’d ordered the pair of choppers to land simultaneously, and standing inside one, he waited till the other door opened, then quickly rushed to the other passengers and in the dark moved with them so that no one would recognize him, either. He hurried into the residence and flipped a quick, assuring nod to the woman before he took the servants’ staircase to the second floor. As he climbed, he listened to reports over the transmitter.
Three men, no insignia, none had spoken. The alarm had come from the private quarters. “Is it secure?” he asked into the small microphone unseen in his ear. Confirmation and location came from the commander of the Presidential guards.
Satisfied with the safety of the Vice President, he entered the second floor, then turned to the right, running his hand along the chair rail trim till he felt the seam in the wall. He pressed and the wall sprang open. He slipped inside and closed the door.
The room was empty except for a bank of flat screens, each picture broken into quarters and showing the grounds and rooms. He removed his weapons before he sat in the chair and called up the security cameras. He replayed them, combing through the last hours. He had nothing on the men, the cameras blackened over before they were seen, yet before that, one lens caught movement near the windows.
He leaned closer, his finger running over the vague silhouette of a woman.
It seemed the Vice President had more than male visitors. Tapping the keys, he brought up the other cameras. He focused on the men. His best interrogators were working on the suspects. They’d only just started. He wouldn’t view them in person. The less anyone saw of him, the better.
He opened the transmitters. “Stop, you’ll kill them.”
Instantly, the men obeyed, dragging them back to the cells, the same brigade used two thousand years ago by his Spanish ancestors.
Ramos hadn’t made it out of the room when Eloisa came rushing toward him. As much as she would dare hurry, he thought. She snapped orders to the armed guard to bring a wheelchair and when he met up with her, he gave her his best forgive-me smile. The wheelchair appeared and he lowered into it. She dismissed the servants to wheel him herself. She wanted to keep an eye on him and while she should be asking what happened, she didn’t.
When they were in one of the many living rooms, she closed the doors, then came to him. He stood. She froze in her steps, frowning. She hadn’t expected him to be more than a jellyfish in the chair, and it made him think she was poisoning his food.
“You are feeling better?” she said, less pleased than curious.
“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”
“I have learned enough from the staff. All that matters is that you’re unharmed.”
“Where were you, wife?”
“Speaking with our President. I am acting as his first lady.”
She was more than filling a role, he thought. She spent considerable time away, and while Garcia had influence, Ramos couldn’t make it beyond the grounds before he’d pass out.
He advanced, smothering his amusement when she straightened her shoulders defensively. She was still a beautiful woman, he thought. When she was younger she was robust and wild, her roots were on the streets. She’d aged gracefully to deeply seductive. She understood her strength as a woman and he let himself appreciate her Rubenesque figure.
He stopped inches from her. “You reek of him.”
She went still, her smooth brow wrinkling.
“Is he a good fuck?” he whispered in her ear like a lover’s call.
She lifted her hand to slap him, but he caught it, smiling gently.
“Watch yourself, Estavan.”
“What is it like keeping the widower and your husband happy?” He let her go, then turned toward the long sofa. “Perhaps Manny and I should discuss it.” He sat, his hands on his cane. “We can’t agree on policy, but in this, perhaps we could.”
She came at him like a vulture swooping in. He was faster, catching her by the arms and holding her back. “No?” he asked.
“I am not unfaithful.” She wrestled against him but he was stronger, for the moment. He didn’t give a damn if she was screwing the entire army, but that she was spending more and more time with the President in Caracas, while he was trapped here, pathetically weak, said she had more control than the U.S. government had first thought.
He had to make it in her best interest to keep him alive. Blackmail had always done the trick before.
“Then you’re willing to prove that?”
Her brow lifted. He could almost see the thoughts flying through her head. The first of which was, “What will it get me?” He didn’t care. He took her mouth like a starving man.
She fought for control. It was game to her, a play for power, and she was very good at getting it. Her mouth teased him, and he drew her between his thighs. She came willingly, her smile soft in her beautifully elegant face, as his hand swept up the back of her thighs. He’d take back the power, like this, having her. Until his face was destroyed two years ago, he knew women and how to manipulate this one. He sought it for a means of escape, and while she used him, he returned it tenfold, torturing her with the only weapon he had left.
Before she killed him, he thought, as she pulled up her skirt and settled on his lap. He played the role of Latin lover. It wasn’t an easy task, his hands moving slower than his brain. He was grateful for instincts and training, but that his entire life came down to screwing a woman to stay alive, was an incredible irony. She started working open his trousers, her dark eyes glittering with hungry anticipation. But his fingers were already under her clothes, between her thighs, stroking her.
If his behavior wasn’t like her husband’s, he’d tell her something syrupy like his brush with death made him appreciate what he had. She wouldn’t care, distracted by her own desire, yet it would satisfy her ego. As Garcia, he was useful, and when he wasn’t, he’d get a hero’s funeral meant for another man—and destroy America in the process.
That alone was enough to push him to survive.
Logan had flashes of another time halfway around the world as they forced his head under water. Only then, it was into sand. How long had they been at this? It felt like an endless cycle from this room and back to the cell.
His