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  The minutes rushed by, as did the miles. And endless fields of nothing. Charlene didn’t need to ask where they were going again. She already knew. They were going to the same remote airstrip where she’d last seen her mother. She was coming full circle. The hellhole that’d been the venue for her mother’s murder was about to witness her end too.

  No! She sat upright and clenched her jaw.

  Fear of impending death blazed through her body like a firestorm. No!

  This was not the end. Charlene Bailey was not finished yet. She had so much more life to live.

  Her cocoon of despair vanished in a flash, and she turned her attention to surviving this mess. She’d had hundreds of hours of self-defense tutorials. Utilizing those lessons, she studied her surroundings, beginning with the men around her. The man behind the wheel had a face that’d seen way too much sun and was full of ancient acne craters. He was shorter than her and was so slim his collarbones jutted above his shoulders.

  The man in the passenger seat was just as scrawny, and his mouth was permanently open as if he couldn’t breathe through his nose. Maybe he couldn’t. He must’ve sensed Charlene staring because his head snapped around to her. His wild hair whipped up in the breeze, covering his eyes for a couple of beats, before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

  No, she decided. These two wouldn’t give her too much trouble.

  Diego was the problem. And with her hands tied behind her back, her chances with him were slim. But not completely dead. Not yet anyway. She adjusted her position on her seat so her hands were closer to the side and she was facing more toward Diego. Feeling along the door, her fingers snagged on a splinter of rusty metal jutting out from where the trim used to be. It was her lucky day. Without moving her arms too much, she began rubbing the coarse rope against the metal.

  An hour or so into this journey, she’d been begging for the ride to be over. Now, though, as the painstaking job of cutting through the rope proved to be taking forever, she begged for the trek to take longer. Each time the jeep launched over another pothole, the rusted makeshift blade sliced one of her fingers. It wasn’t long before she felt the dribble of her own blood. But she forced through the pain.

  No pain, no gain.

  God, she’d heard that mantra a thousand times over the years at self-defense lessons. It was never more pertinent than now.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Two more vehicles followed them. Three men were in the one just behind, so she assumed the remaining two were in the last jeep. The middle jeep didn’t have any headlights, which was probably why it was cruising so close. If Charlene had a gun, she would’ve easily been able to shoot them. She’d had a few shooting lessons over the years.

  The driver shifted down a gear, and Charlene snapped her eyes forward. Her heart lurched to her throat as she recognized the lone shed. They’d arrived. No longer caring about caution, she tripled her friction on the rope.

  But when the jeep lurched to a stop at the side wall, she knew she was too late. Barely three seconds later, she was yanked from the jeep. The instant her feet hit the ground, she planted her heels, crouched down, and drove upward with all the force she could muster. The top of her head connected with the chin of the nearest man. He flew backward, hitting the ground as a lump of lifeless meat.

  She didn’t stop to admire her handiwork; instead, she flung herself at the second man, slamming her knees into his groin. He buckled forward at the exact moment she raised her knee again. This time she ploughed into his nose, and he too was on the ground, passed out with his mate.

  Charlene took off at a sprint, but seconds later, she howled in agony at the rivers of pain in her scalp as she was yanked backward on the dirt. When she opened her eyes, Diego had a clump of her hair wrapped around his fist and his gun aimed at her forehead.

  That was the second time her hair had failed her, and she decided there and then that if she made it out of this alive, she was cutting it all off.

  Diego screamed something in Spanish, and a cloud of dust was the prelude to the feet of four men reaching her side.

  “Get up, you stupid bitch,” Diego hissed.

  Charlene rolled to her side, allowing herself a close-up view of the man she’d kneed in the face. He was out cold, missing a few teeth, but not dead . . . unfortunately.

  Before she was fully standing, the four men had her in a grip that she’d have no hope of escaping. They dragged her to a pole beside the shed, and while three men held her in position, the fourth cut her ropes and promptly tied her hands back up and secured her to the pole.

  Once that was done, they stepped back with their weapons raised. The headlights of the two jeeps were aimed right at her, silhouetting the six men. It was easy to spot Diego, not just because he was stockier than the remaining five but also because of the confidence in his stance. He didn’t seem at all perturbed that she’d taken out two of his men with her bare hands.

  She, on the other hand, was incredibly proud of herself. “Your men could use a little more training.” She grinned at the two lifeless forms in the dirt.

  “Shut up.” Diego yelled, then stomped forward and slapped her across the face.

  Charlene bit back the scream in her throat. When the stars dancing across her eyes evaporated, she unclenched her jaw and tried to eyeball Diego. “Why should I? Like you said, I’ll be dead soon.”

  As if on cue, the distant roar of an engine had Diego and his men turning their attention skyward.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Marshall breathed a sigh of relief when the convoy slowed down at the end of a road that’d lasted an eternity. He’d been watching the empty fuel indicator for at least ten miles; certain the Ural was about to offer its last gasp.

  While Diego and his band of goons aimed the three jeeps at a distant shed, Marshall drove the motorbike into a thicket of gnarly weeds and cut the engine. He lunged into the bushes and crawled on his hands and knees toward a better vantage point.

  They’d positioned the jeeps’ headlights to capture the show, and what a show it was. Out of nowhere, Charlene reduced two men to pulp, and Marshall had to resist cheering her on. And running in to help her. Her stamina was incredible. He just hoped she didn’t run out of steam before he got to her. She’d need to run like hell once he grabbed her.

  Marshall saw Diego’s cowardly slap across Charlene’s face, and that’s when he decided that the asshole wasn’t just going to die tonight; he was going to suffer an ugly, painful death.

  The sound of an engine had him searching skyward, and his heart slammed into his chest at the site of a lone floodlight descending from the darkness. The whole time he’d been chasing Charlene, he’d assumed Diego was taking her to some kind of secret meeting point, where rich assholes with fistfuls of money would buy her in a bidding war.

  Not once had he considered the possibility of Diego having her flown somewhere.

  This new twist threatened to finish what the motorbike had started—to knock him completely off balance.

  It also showed just how valuable she was. It had him wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. And Charlene, for that matter.

  He had no doubt that if she got airborne, she’d vanish. He was kicking himself for agreeing to take her to Cuba. He should’ve ignored her plight and returned her to the safety of the US of A. But the debate was pointless. He’d done it now, and that made him responsible for getting her home.

  It was a perfect night. Mild temperature. Clear sky. No breeze.

  Perfect for killing bad guys.

  In his past life, whenever he’d spearheaded covert operations, most of the time he’d had intricate details of the lay of the land. Most of the time he’d had the backup of able-bodied men and top-notch equipment. Not tonight. Tonight it was just him, his bare hands, and a kick-ass woman who was a better fighter than some of his old navy crew. But with a jet closing in on that tiny runway, he no longer had the luxury of time to scope out the area or plan an attack.


  Whoever was on that jet had both the means and the money to get here quick . . . and that reeked of trouble. It also meant that the second the damn thing landed, the scales tipped in favor of the bad guys.

  It was time to notch this shit up to extraction mode.

  With the men distracted by the incoming jet, Marshall made a snap decision, and hunching over, he raced hard and fast at the closest jeep.

  One hundred yards.

  Ten years ago, he’d have covered this distance in the space of fifteen seconds, and that was with an eighty-pound pack on his back. Now, though, it seemed to take an eternity.

  Fifty yards.

  If one of the men turned now, it was all over.

  The jet’s roar intensified, and it was impossible to hear anything else.

  Twenty yards.

  He didn’t dare look up. He just put his head down and aimed for the closest tailpipe.

  He covered the last five yards with a dive and rolled right up to the well-worn tire. His heart was in his throat as he clutched onto the back of the jeep and pulled his head up to survey the scene.

  The plane looked to be skimming right over the distant treetops. Eight men were still visible. Two were passed out before Charlene, but the rest were more spread out than when he’d last eyeballed them. Two were positioned right alongside the runway. Damn idiots were so close they’d likely get knocked out by the bird’s wings. If only he should be so lucky. Two men were near the far edge of the shed. They had their weapons lowered and were taking a moment to puff on fat cigars.

  Two men stood next to Charlene, but they obviously didn’t trust her as their weapons, though relatively loose, were trained in her direction. They were his first plan of attack. The engine noise was his greatest ally, and one look at the lowering beacon had him guessing he had all of about one minute till touchdown.

  Hunched over, he dashed for the next jeep. Charlene was twenty yards away, but it might as well have been fifty. Marshall sucked in a huge breath, let it out in a steady stream, then ran straight and hard at the nearest man. He crossed the distance in about six seconds and didn’t dare look at Charlene. His focus was on the man. The man’s focus was on the jet.

  Marshall was on him and whipped his head around with a vicious crack before the man even saw him coming and tossed the body aside. The second man, though, was a different story. His weapon snapped from aiming at the ground to aiming at Marshall within a millisecond.

  “Marshall!” Charlene screamed.

  Marshall shoved her screams from his focus and ran straight at the scrawny asshole. He was banking on both inexperience and surprise to get him through the next three seconds. As a soldier, he’d been taught how to simultaneously ignore the threat of imminent death and finish the job at hand. Didn’t make it any fucking easier. With each step, he expected to be shredded to bits by the rapid fire of the AK-47. By the look on the man’s face, he was just as surprised as Marshall when Marshall got there first.

  In the same instant, Marshall’s left hand slapped the gun away, while his right slammed fist-first into his rival's nose. Despite the heavy rumble of the plane’s engines, he heard the crunch that marked the bones breaking beneath his blow.

  He heard something else too. Shouts from the other men.

  Marshall rolled to his side and grabbed hold of the battered Kalashnikov, and as he prayed there were still thirty rounds in the magazine, he pulled the trigger. In a tenth of a second, the man running toward him went from upright to flat on his face in a cloud of blood. Marshall shot the next Cuban before the others had even moved. The remaining two scattered like mice, and Marshall’s breath caught in his throat as he picked them off one after the other.

  The gun’s sights were off, and instead of hitting them dead center, he took out their legs and hips. It was effective enough. The jet still hadn’t touched down before Marshall had reduced the men to bloody messes on the dirt. Marshall wanted to look Diego in the eyes as he took him down. But with no time to spare, he had to settle with the sounds of Diego’s agony, as Marshall carved a spray of bullets up the length of his body. Marshall got to his feet and pumped a few more rounds into each of them.

  The squeal of tires striking the tarmac had Marshall forcing back the urge to get up close and personal with Diego and confirming the asshole was dead. Instead, he turned to Charlene. Her gaze locked on him so intently that he had to remind himself to breathe. As he dashed toward her, he tossed the used weapon aside and paused to gather the first thug’s weapon from the ground. He slung it over his shoulder as he approached her. “You okay?”

  “Oh, Marshall. Thank you. Thank you.” Tears streamed down her bloodstained cheeks.

  He stepped in behind her and worked on the ropes. The jeep’s headlights provided enough light to see both the knot and her messed-up hands. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  “I can’t believe you found me.”

  “Got lucky. That’s all.” The knot was proving a bitch to unravel, and it was time they didn’t have. “Come on,” he hissed under his breath. Finally, he wrestled the knot free, and Charlene stepped from the pole and twisted around to face him.

  She curled her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” Her embrace made every second of the last twenty-four hours’ worth it.

  He wrapped his arms around her delicate waist for the briefest of hugs, then he eased back. Despite everything she’d been through, the goddamned woman still looked as sexy as hell. “Come on, we’ve gotta go.”

  He grabbed her hand, and after a quick glance to position the downed plane, he dragged her toward the nearest bushes, praying they remained hidden behind the cover of the shed.

  Charlene’s gait was erratic and, based on her groans, painful too. And it probably wasn’t just because she was in bare feet. Considering the beatings he’d witnessed, it was a wonder she could move at all. The rugged terrain off the gravel wasn’t any better, and they weren’t anywhere near as far as he’d hoped when the roaring engines were replaced with the whir of the easing turbines.

  “Wait! Wait.” Charlene released his grasp and crouched down.

  “What?” He snapped his eyes to her.

  “I have to see.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes were a feisty combination of determination and anger. “I need to see who’s on that plane.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The headache that had begun nipping behind Noah’s eyes when he’d stormed from the courtroom had hit a whole new level by the time he’d hung up from that wretched call from Diego. But the downward spiral didn’t stop there. When he’d called his pilot, the narrow-minded asshole had insisted on triple his normal fee to make the urgent illegal flight to Cuba. His two bodyguards had done the same. The greedy fools had just written themselves off Noah’s payroll; they just didn’t know it yet. It would be the first topic of discussion when they returned to New York. If they returned. Who knew what they were flying into? And more to the point, what that conniving crook Diego had planned.

  At least Madam Athena hadn’t let him down. She’d provided Stella without debate. The Swedish bombshell was usually booked up months in advance, and even then, she was very fussy about whom she was reserved for. Stella was beyond stunning, with eyes the color of a cerulean pool and lips like cotton candy. She was five foot eight, had a figure that would have any men’s magazine editor drooling, and spoke with an accent that oozed sensuality.

  It’d been a whirlwind of an afternoon as he deflected calls from badgering reporters and his soon-to-be ex-partner, and also made urgent arrangements to get himself to Cuba. By the time Noah sat in the plush leather seat on the jet, he was mentally drained. Just two hours had elapsed between ending the call with Diego and taking off from JFK.

  Once the pilot extinguished the fasten seat belt sign, Stella poured Noah a glass of cognac over ice and gave bottled water to the others. Then she led him to his private office at the rear of the jet, stripped down naked, and attempted to take Noah to a whole new set
of heights.

  Normally, his time with Stella was mind-blowing, and he’d savor every single second with the kinky minx. Not tonight, though. When he’d decided to book her, he had hoped the exquisite blonde would take his mind off the unpredictable mess he’d slipped into. He’d also hoped her magical touch would release the tension jamming up his body. She hadn’t done either.

  His climax was disappointing, more whimper than mind-blowing release, and the entire time, he was trying not to focus on the exorbitant fee Madam Athena had charged for her top performer. Stella had outdone herself, though, and Noah commended her for her efforts with a promise of an additional bonus.

  He returned to the plush seats in the middle of the jet and glanced at the time. Two more hours to go. And the worst part was that the configuration of the plane meant he had to sit opposite the ugly twins. His identical twin bodyguards no longer looked alike. Colt had broken his nose so many times it faced his left ear, and Steele had a jagged scar across his left eyebrow that stopped just above his eye. They were both beefed-up chumps, though, all muscle no brains, and were more the Bruce Willis style of bodyguard than the Bond type. He’d used them on and off over the years . . . whenever someone needed to be reminded of who was in charge.

  Noah hated that he needed the overpaid thugs at all. But he did.

  The twins had also been there twenty-two years ago when things had gotten out of control. And he’d paid them well to keep that unexpected incident confidential. They had. This time their mission, other than to protect Noah, was to finish what they should’ve done last time . . . to kill Diego.

  Noah would handle the girl himself. Just the thought of wrapping his hands around her neck had his heart rate tripping.

  Stella stepped from his office dressed in a designer pants suit and topped up his cognac. As he sipped the succulent nectar, Noah dwelled on the last time his life had spiraled out of control so quickly. It was in Cuba . . . twenty-two years ago. The one night that had changed the course of his life forever.