Down to the Wire Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Books by Lyn Stone

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Beauty and the Badge #952

  Live-In Lover #1055

  A Royal Murder #1172

  In Harm’s Way # 1193

  §Down to the Wire #1281

  § Special Ops

  Harlequin Historicals

  The Wicked Truth #358

  The Arrangement #389

  The Wilder Wedding #413

  The Knight’s Bride #445

  Bride of Trouville #467

  One Christmas Night #487 “Ian’s Gift”

  My Lady’s Choice #511

  The Highland Wife #551

  The Quest #588

  Marrying Mischief #601

  Gifts of the Season #631 “Christmas Charade”

  The Scot #643

  Harlequin Books

  The Wedding Chase “Word of a Gentleman”

  *

  LYN STONE

  is a former artist who developed an avid interest in criminology while helping her husband study for his degree. His subsequent career in counterintelligence and contacts in the field provide a built-in source for research when writing suspense. Their long and happy marriage provides firsthand knowledge of happily-ever-afters.

  This book is dedicated to the retired

  Special Agent Ray Mixon and his family,

  Molly, Joyce, Donna, Debbie, Eddie and Billy.

  Thanks for being such good friends all these years.

  Prologue

  “Corda never should have gone to Colombia in the first place, considering his past three assignments. He hasn’t had more than five consecutive days off in the last three years. DEA’s using him up.’” Holly Amberson tossed the classified folder she was holding onto the table, shook her head and clicked her tongue. “You’ll have a dead body or a burned-out shell if you don’t extract him now.”

  “Thank you, Holly,” Jack Mercier said, appreciating her concern for a fellow agent she had yet to meet. If she had a fault, it was the fact that she wanted to mother them all, even though at twenty-eight Holly was the second youngest person in the room. But profiling was her main trick, so her take was very credible.

  He looked around the circular conference table at the new team he was forging, a conglomeration of exceptional talent gleaned from major government agencies in an attempt to pool those contacts and resources for Homeland Security, its Terrorist Threat Integration Center in particular.

  The concept was not unique, but the personnel present were. The team, named Sextant, Latin for the six segments of a circle, would have carte blanche to combat terrorist threats any way they saw fit, hopefully before any acts were implemented. Almost six months old, Sextant was a civilian special ops prototype meant to erode the rivalry that currently existed among the agencies of the government. Its success was essential.

  He had given them Corda’s file and they’d had overnight to consider what they thought should be done. Now he was addressing them in order of hire. Though Jack was the leader by virtue of appointment from his position at the National Security Agency, and had the final say, their ranks were equal and their opinions crucial in forming this and any other decision affecting the team. “Will, your input?”

  “I say let Corda finish up or all he’s done so far down there will be for nothing and he’ll be mad as hell. Probably with you for pulling him out.”

  Jack gave only cursory notice to the playful, nearly concealed kick under the table Holly issued Will for disagreeing with her.

  Camaraderie had formed already, amazing Jack with how well they all got along considering their diversity. And how accustomed they were to calling the shots in their former jobs.

  Holly, his first recruit, had been Special Agent in Charge of an FBI counter-terrorism team based right here in McLean, VA. Will Griffin had distinguished himself with the ATF in Houston, rising to a supervisory position very quickly.

  But there were the others to hear from on the issue of Joseph Corda and his final mission for the Drag Enforcement Agency. Clay Senate was formerly with the CIA in covert ops and would know more about Corda’s actual situation than any of them. “Your assessment, Clay?”

  “Make contact. Give him the choice. I agree with Will. Corda will turn his resentment this way if we yank him now.”

  “Clay’s right,” Eric Vinland said before being asked. “Besides, if Corda’s to be a member of this outfit, he’s supposed to get a vote, too. Right?”

  Eric’s boyish smile flashed. Clay couldn’t get over how young Vinland looked compared to the others, even Holly. And how deceptively naive he could seem. Yet he was a master player when it came to infiltration, blending with the enemy, as he had done for the Defense Intelligence Agency during the past six years.

  “I’ll go,” Eric said, as if it were a done deal, the decision already made. He was good at reading faces and Jack suspected his own had just been read.

  “No, not you. We’ll contract this one out,” Jack told him, watching for any sign of resentment or surprise. He purposely didn’t give Vinland his reasons. Maybe it was unnecessary to keep testing them the way he did, but the overall mission of the team was vital. He needed to examine every nuance.

  Instead of arguing, Eric shrugged, as if he had fully expected that answer. “Then I’ve got just the person.”

  Eric casually slid a file past the one empty chair at the table, the vacant place waiting for Joseph Corda to complete the circle and make Sextant complete.

  Chapter 1

  By all rights, he should be dead as a doornail.

  Joe Corda lay where he had fallen during the attack, his 9mm as empty as his soul, the last round spent. He surveyed the clearing full of bodies. Five, by his count, maybe another one over in the bushes.

  They were new recruits, all of them, little or no training, couldn’t shoot worth spit. Half of them probably shot one another. Some death squad. He had heard them coming for a quarter of a mile.

  Joe felt the sting then. A ricochet must have caught him, or maybe a graze. The nick on his forehead oozed blood, already drawing flies. The whole blamed country was filled with flies. And damned mosquitoes the size of bats. He slapped at his neck, swatted the insects away and wiped the blood off on his sleeve.

  Close call, he thought. Close, but certainly acceptable when this was practically a suicide mission to begin with. The chief hadn’t called it that, but Joe had known going in that it would be worse than dicey. This was the fourth such assignment he had survived within the last couple of years. The third one to end on a similar note. This script was definitely getting old.

  “Just ain’t my time right now,” he muttered. His own words, even spoken that quietly, rang clear in the silence around him. God, he had sounded almost disappointed.

  Hearing what he’d said and how he said it suddenly tripped some trigger within him, alerting him to the fact that death no longer bothered him all that much. Even the flashes of precognition he’d had the night before hadn’t upped his pulse rate. They came as he had hovered on the edge of sleep, two brief still shots. One, of the business end of an automatic staring at him like a big round eye about to wink out his life. The other, a quick glimpse of Humberto’s woman looking scared to death.

  He usually didn’
t waste time dwelling on death, especially his own, but for some reason, now it was hard not to. He had been teasing it, maybe even courting it this time. Probably on the other missions, too, now that he thought about it.

  “The big sin,” he grunted.

  He was no stranger to sin, of course, even big ones. In his thirty-two years, he had broken just about every commandment sent down from the mountain and a few he was sure God forgot to tell Moses to write down. Not that Joe claimed to be all that religious. Not even close to a good Catholic anymore. But early lessons stuck and he did recall that suicide was the one biggie that kept you out of the churchyard.

  Joe shook his head, realizing he was a little out of it right now. The adrenaline still pumped through him like a shot of pure horse.

  “Good thing I’m quitting,” he muttered aloud. He’d gotten reckless. Cocky. It was time to get out of the business. And he was going to. This was his last gig with DEA. His papers had gone in. It would be official now that this mission was over. He would go home, do his report and be done with it all. He wondered if the new job would be something where he wasn’t so tempted to dare the devil the way he’d been doing. If not, he’d decline it.

  The shine had rubbed off his enthusiasm pretty early in the game, but he liked to think the core of it was still in there somewhere. He just couldn’t find it anymore.

  Dad sure would want it to be there. Giving up on anything was not an option for him. His native Cuba had at least one refugee who’d become American all the way to the bone before he reached puberty. Jose Corda was a Yank for sure, and he had bred his son to value freedom, to fight for right and be a stand-up guy. Two voluntary stints in ‘Nam and a chest full of medals said a lot about what the old man believed. Joe had spent most of his life just trying to measure up.

  The mission here was straightforward enough: get inside the cartel, pinpoint the fields for destruction, wreak all the havoc he could at the compound and destroy Carlos Humberto.

  Drugs were now the main export here. A damned shame as Colombia was a beautiful country rich with emeralds, gold and even platinum. Paramilitary groups were everywhere, all financed by the drug trade, all unstable as a crate of Mason jars filled with nitro.

  Three months were enough. Joe was off the clock as of today. He’d cut it very close, satisfied everything would hit the fan in less than a half hour after he left. He glanced at his watch. Yeah, the truck would have blown by now. The sheds had gone up. He’d heard the explosions not long before these shooters showed up. The crop dust would happen tomorrow or the next day.

  Joe had effectively cut off the head of one snake, for all the good it would do in a country writhing with them. Humberto’s current shipment of heroin had blown skyhigh before it reached the plane. He’d take the heat from higher up when his coca and opium poppy crops fell to the aerial eradication.

  Joe only wished he had been able to make the payroll in Humberto’s fireproof safe disappear, too. But what he had accomplished should do the trick.

  He wiped his face again and reached in his pocket to find his extra clip.

  “Ah, amigo, do not trouble yourself to reload,” came the silky dark voice of Humberto.

  The rascal spoke English, which he had never done before within Joe’s hearing. Joe was supposed to be Cuban, highly recommended to Humberto by one of his main contacts in the States who had turned helpful after he had been apprehended with a suitcase full of uncut heroin.

  Joe’s vision from last night had just become reality. He had known it would.

  Humberto held the automatic loosely, but his finger was twitching on the trigger. The deadly eye of the barrel stared at Joe.

  He looked away, nodding in the direction of the bodies of Humberto’s men. “You got here a little late for the fireworks, Slick.”

  Humberto’s black eyes were menacing, his teeth gritted. “You have destroyed my life, Corda. I shall enjoy killing you. It is the one pleasure left to me now.”

  “Found out my name, huh? Somebody been telling tales out of school?”

  Humberto nodded slowly. “Oh yes. Someone you trust.”

  “Well, that really narrows it down. Humor me. Curiosity might kill me before you get the chance. Who was it?”

  “Very well, why not? The final word you hear, Corda, will be the name of your Judas.” Humberto stepped closer, firmed the grip on his weapon, pointed it directly at Joe’s chest and opened his mouth to speak.

  Joe instinctively ducked to one side just as a single round barked. Strange, he should have felt the impact before he heard the sound. And there should have been more than one.

  “God, don’t tell me you missed at that range,” he said, laughing, waiting for the burst of fire that would finish him off. This was it. He braced.

  “I never miss,” came the soft, calm, unaccented voice of a woman.

  Joe jerked upright again. Humberto was gone. Instead, cool as the proverbial cucumber, there stood the goddess. She kicked at Humberto’s dropped automatic with the toe of her boot and strode over to peer down into the ravine where Humberto lay. “Chest shot. Dead center.”

  That’s what they all called her at the compound, The Goddess. She was a knockout. Long wheat-colored hair, sea-blue eyes, perfect build—not skinny, certainly not fat. Perfection. Humberto’s houseguest or hostage or mistress. No one was quite sure. Maybe even Humberto hadn’t quite made up his mind about that yet.

  Joe blew out the breath he’d been holding, then laughed again, more rationally this time. “You be sure to tell me what old Hummy did or didn’t do that pissed you off that much. I’ll make a note.”

  She almost smiled, but seemed to think better of it. Considering what she’d just done and since her Beretta now rested beside one well-shaped thigh, Joe didn’t believe she intended to carry out Humberto’s plan for him.

  Instead, she gave him her free hand. “Get up. It would be a good idea to leave now. Morales will send someone else out if the men do not return soon. He will probably do that anyway. For Humberto. The place was an inferno when I left. No one even noticed me leaving.”

  Joe struggled to his feet, weaving a little once he was standing.

  The hand she had offered him felt cold to the touch, even in this heat. And it had trembled just a little. Ms. Sure-shot obviously wasn’t quite as unaffected by all this as she would like him to think she was.

  “You coming with me?” he asked as politely as he knew how. She was holding a pistol, after all.

  “I can hardly go back,” she retorted, but her voice remained pleasant. Almost too deliberately calm. She looked over at the ravine again. “I got rid of the money. He’ll be blamed since only he and Morales had access to it. Supposedly.”

  “My my. I wonder how you managed that.” He smiled for real. “And why you did it.”

  She gave a half shrug. “I figured it was time someone made a move. It seemed you were planning to retire there.”

  “Not hardly.” There was no sound in the ravine, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Humberto was dead. He started to go check.

  She grasped his elbow, halting him. “Forget it. We don’t have the time. Grab another weapon and let’s move out.”

  “You’re not Spanish,” he observed as he scooped one of the automatics off the ground and checked the magazine. In the week since she had arrived at Humberto’s stronghold, he had never heard her use anything other than Spanish, pure and accent free. Now she spoke English like a Vassar graduate.

  “Brilliant deduction,” she replied, plowing through the undergrowth ahead of him.

  “Are you somebody’s little agent, by any chance?” he asked.

  She scoffed. “I am no one’s little anything, Mr. Corda.”

  He brushed aside a prickly frond and turned sideways to slip between two trees. She was little and cut a narrow path. “A freelance…what, then? Mercenary?”

  She stopped for a second to adjust her boot. The woman had a wicked, dimpled smile that turned a man inside out and left his
guts exposed. Anyway, that’s just what it felt like when she turned it on him now, and she wasn’t even applying it full force. However, her eyes weren’t playing the same game as those lips of hers.

  “Think of me as a student of human nature.” She had pocketed her pistol after shooting Humberto, and picked up one of the AK-47s. It now rested in the crook of one arm, the barrel pointed too close to his foot.

  Joe backed up a step, pursed his lips and fitted the automatic he had chosen into a more comfortable position to carry. “You picked some strange specimens to study,” he observed with a heavy sigh.

  She brushed aside the bushes with her forearm. “I’m not quite finished yet,” she informed him. “I have one left to dissect.”

  “You talking about me?” he asked. She was having to work at being clever. Working damned hard and pretty much succeeding, he had to give her that. But he sensed something in her that she wasn’t about to reveal to him. Her movements were a little too studied. But there was no point in provoking her right now by calling her on it. “You can’t be talking about me.”

  Her low, sultry laugh sent chills down his spine despite the intense heat of the jungle at midday. He got the feeling she was already taking him apart, piece by piece. Trouble was, he didn’t mind it. Not at all.

  She pushed past him to take point. He didn’t mind that either since it sure improved the scenery up ahead. She looked pretty damned good in those jungle fatigues Humberto had provided for her. Hot was the word and it had nothing to do with the weather.

  “Would hanging out with you count as a death wish?” he asked just to make conversation.

  She stopped and turned all the way around to face him again, her eyes narrowed as if she really were studying him. “What makes you ask such a thing?”

  “I’m drawing the line at suicide,” he told her. “I just decided that a few minutes before you showed up.”