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  Speaking in rapid Spanish in a dialect difficult to understand, the woman said something about a road block.

  Jordan peered fearfully up the length of the bus. At first, the glare of lights ahead suggested traffic backed up on the highway. But then, with a shiver of dread, she made out the shapes of tanks, parked sideways to prevent the passing of vehicles. Soldiers were leaning into cars, speaking to the drivers, then waving them on.

  Jordan swallowed against a dry mouth. She carried both her passport and her visa in her backpack. She wasn’t in the country illegally, and yet Father Benedict had warned her that Americans were being picked up and questioned, and those believed to be supporters of the Moderate government were not released. With just four days left on her visa, she could not afford delay of any kind.

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked her companion, her pulse accelerating with fear and desperation.

  “Just outside of Caracas,” the woman replied.

  Jordan sought landmarks beyond the glare of the blockade. She made out a forested hill dotted with lights that signified buildings, civilization. “I need to get off the bus,” she said out loud.

  The woman whispered something to her husband who sat across the aisle. She then turned back to Jordan. “Use the door at the back,” she suggested. “Perhaps the soldiers won’t see you.”

  “Thank you,” said Jordan, patting the pig’s head as she squeezed out of her seat. Considering that Venezuela’s poorest supported the Populist coup, she was lucky they weren’t grabbing hold of her.

  The latch on the emergency exit was stuck. With escalating panic, Jordan jiggled it. The old man sitting closest to the door offered assistance. The latch yielded with a squeak. Jordan croaked out a word of thanks, eased the door open and jumped out. She shut it quietly, unwilling to draw attention to herself.

  The bus’s fumes filled her nostrils as she peered toward the blockade, measuring her ability to vault the low wall at the edge of the roadway without being seen. Solomon could do it, she thought, tightening the straps on her backpack.

  Without warning, the bus moved forward, leaving Jordan no choice but to sprint out of the traffic. With her heart in her throat, she raced toward the wall, bounding upward and bruising her knees.

  A warning shout sounded over the rumble of engines. In the next instant, gunfire cracked the air. A bullet whistled past her head. On hands and knees, Jordan scrambled toward the vegetation growing on the hillside.

  Oh, Jesus! The metallic taste of fear filled her mouth. She’d been shot at. She could’ve been killed!

  Raised voices and the beam of a powerful spotlight warned her that they were coming after her. She commanded herself to rise on rubbery legs and run. But the incline was nearly vertical. Grasping the limbs and branches she could now see because of the light shining up at her, she hauled herself upward, weighted by sudden terror and the pull of gravity.

  The vegetation thinned and then there was a guard rail. Vaulting it, she found herself on a street above the highway. Spying an alley, Jordan sprinted pell-mell into its welcoming darkness, putting distance between herself and the sound of pursuit.

  She had covered four blocks at a dead run before the stitch in her side forced her to a gasping halt. She stood by an abandoned factory, utterly lost, shaking from head to toe, trying to catch her breath. A car cruised by, and she shrank back into the shadows.

  What now? she thought, digging in her backpack for her cell phone. It hadn’t worked at all in Puerto Ayacucho, but perhaps it would here, in this modern city.

  With trembling hands, she eyed the digital display and quickly silenced the ringer that indicated a new message.

  Solomon had called her.

  Putting her back to the wall, her heart racing to see what he’d had to say, she played his message back, closing her eyes as the rumble of his voice filled her ears.

  “Jordan,” he said on a note that brought goose bumps to her skin and tears to her eyes, “if you have any sense whatsoever, you will get in touch with Lucy Donovan. I’m going to read you her cell phone number.”

  Relief made Jordan’s knees tremble. Solomon had thrown her a lifeline, giving her hope that he hadn’t cut her out of his life forever. She memorized the number, and whispering it over and over to herself, she dialed Lucy Donovan with fingers that shook so badly, she could scarcely accomplish the feat.

  Lucy Donovan had instructed Jordan to look for a silver Hummer with tinted windows. When a vehicle fitting that description squeezed into the alleyway heading toward their designated rendezvous point, Jordan first thought it was a tank.

  She pressed herself against a cinder-block wall, cringing as it approached her, but then a beam of light glinted on the silver fender wall, and she realized this was Lucy, who, despite Jordan’s sketchy description of where she was, had found her within an hour of her call.

  Jordan darted over to the waiting vehicle and pulled the door open.

  “Hurry,” said the woman at the wheel. “There’s a curfew.”

  Jordan climbed into the leather seat, shut the door, and grappled for her seat belt. The SUV took off, turned a sharp corner, and headed up a hill.

  There was no sign of Miguel in the car, only a shovel on the floor of the seat behind her. “Where’s my son?” Jordan asked.

  “Safe,” said the woman. “You’ll see him soon.”

  The interior of the vehicle was dark, but Jordan could tell that Lucy Donovan was younger than she would have thought, her dark hair caught up in a ponytail. She wore black clothing, and there was a dirt stain on her right cheek, evidence that she’d been using that shovel a short while ago. What on earth for?

  The woman flicked a glance at her and then at her rearview mirror. She turned abruptly left. “You are either extremely brave,” she said in a cool voice, “or extremely naive.”

  Jordan stiffened. “How is Miguel?” she asked, choosing to ignore the comment. The woman was going well out of her way for her.

  “He’s fine,” she answered with certainty. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  “I went all the way to Puerto Ayacucho, and he wasn’t there,” Jordan quietly accused.

  Lucy flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. “You shouldn’t have come into Venezuela in the first place,” she opined. “The airport is being overtaken as we speak. Everyone but DEA agents, hard-core military attachés, and code clerks have left the country.”

  Jordan’s heart stopped, then started again. How would she get out of the country with the airport closed? “I need someone at the embassy to sign the adoption papers,” she said, deciding she would face that obstacle later.

  “It’s a little late for that,” said the woman quietly.

  “But the embassy isn’t evacuated yet,” Jordan pointed out.

  “I just told you most of the personnel have already left the embassy.”

  “But someone could sign his papers,” Jordan insisted.

  Lucy thinned her lips. “We’ll see,” she said without optimism.

  As if on cue, light flared in the night sky, and the sound of an explosion vibrated the shell of the SUV. Jordan gripped the armrest, her heart in her throat.

  “That came from the airport,” Lucy informed her. “The few workers remaining at the embassy will be evacuated soon. You can leave with them.”

  “Only if Miguel comes with me,” Jordan replied. “I won’t leave again without him.”

  Lucy Donovan cut her a reflective glance. Silence filled the vehicle as she switched into a lower gear, and they ascended yet another steep, narrow road, seemingly bound for the top of the mountain where high-rise apartments loomed toward a starry sky.

  “Thank you for coming to get me,” Jordan added. Better to be with fellow Americans than lost and alone.

  “You’re welcome,” Lucy said, matter-of-factly.

  Her earlier words, You can leave with them, echoed in Jordan’s head. “Aren’t you leaving the country also?” she asked.

  “Eventua
lly,” Lucy replied.

  The vague answer made Jordan curious, but she had worries of her own to preoccupy her—like whether Miguel would be able to come with her this time. The memory of her last evacuation filled her with premonition.

  What if the powers that be refused to evacuate Miguel? She couldn’t remain in Venezuela indefinitely, hiding from persecution, while managing to care for him.

  Oh, Solomon, she thought with a heavy heart, maybe you were right. I should have let Lucy handle this all along.

  Lucy Donovan lived in a high-security, high-rise apartment building. A keycard and a code punched into the alarm system admitted them into the parking garage. An elevator bore then to the very top floor, where Lucy entered a second code that released the door to the penthouse suite. There, a panoramic view of the city of Caracas filled the wall of windows.

  Jordan wasn’t as enthralled with the view as she was with the realization that Miguel was somewhere inside this modern, impersonalized apartment.

  “Gracias, Julieta,” Lucy said, dismissing the maid who slept on the couch, awaiting her return.

  With a bob and a good night murmur, the maid left the apartment. Lucy slipped off her muddy boots, leaving them beside the door. “Are you hungry?” she asked, striding in socks to the kitchen and flooding it with lights. Jordan glanced at the modern amenities and graphite counters. “I have beer and pizza,” said Lucy, opening the refrigerator.

  Jordan took stock of her. Wearing a black halter and leggings over her trim, athletic frame, Lucy Donovan looked like Lara Croft from Tomb Raider.

  “No thank you. I’m not hungry. Where’s Miguel?” she asked, dying to reunite with him.

  “In the guest room down the hall,” said Lucy, glancing at her with light green eyes. “It has its own bathroom,” she added. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

  “Thank you so much,” Jordan answered, turning and hurrying down the short hallway.

  As she pushed through the closed door, her gaze flew to the small lump huddled under the blanket on the king-size bed. She turned on the bedside lamp, needing to see him, to reassure herself that Miguel was really here.

  As she pulled the edge of the sheet from his cheek, he startled awake and drew back with a cry.

  “Miguel,” she said, removing her baseball cap. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

  For one awful second, he didn’t seem to recognize her, but then his big, dark eyes filled with tears, and he launched himself at her, clinging so tightly that she could barely breathe.

  “I missed you, too, baby,” she choked, as tears of exhaustion and happiness flooded her eyes. “I came a long way to get you back,” she crooned, rocking him as he continued to hold on. Running a hand up and down his narrow back, she could tell that he’d been fed, but he clearly hadn’t had much of an appetite.

  “Do you remember your English words?” she asked, when he didn’t speak. She held her breath, hoping he would speak for her, as he had in the past.

  “Yes,” he said with hesitation.

  “I’m going to take you home with me,” she told him. “This time I won’t let you go. Do you understand?”

  He searched her face, his eyes wide and filled with far too much sorrow for a boy of four years. He didn’t answer. She suffered the feeling that he didn’t believe her, though he should. Nothing short of hell and high water could separate them ever again.

  Ah, here she is, Jillian thought, hearing the crush of gravel under the tires of an approaching car. She secured her second earring, stepped into sandals too tight for her swollen feet, and reached for her matching handbag. She hadn’t even been sure that Jordan would show up tonight. She’d been trying to reach her sister for two days now to firm up their plans.

  “Graham,” Jillian called at the top of the stairs. “Aunt Jordan’s here. I’m leaving now.”

  “Okay,” said Graham, who was in his bedroom.

  “That means you need to get off the computer and play with Agatha,” Jillian reminded him. “Make her a ham and cheese sandwich and don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Graham appeared suddenly at his bedroom door with a sneer on his face. “If Aunt Jordan is taking you out, then why is that FBI guy coming to the door?” he demanded.

  “He is?” Jillian hadn’t even thought to look out the window; she’d just assumed it was Jordan. “Oh, dear.”

  Beset with suspicions and fears, Jillian hurried down the steps. The heel of her right sandal wobbled, and she stumbled suddenly, clattering down several steps before catching herself with one hand on the rail, the other on a step behind her.

  “Mom!” Graham called, thundering down the steps in her wake. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Jillian, though her ankle and one wrist were now both tender. She felt a tightening in her womb that she attributed to a Braxton Hicks contraction. They happened regularly, now. “Get the door, honey.”

  With a returning scowl, Graham brushed past her to open the door. Jillian stood up, feeling flustered and ungainly. As the door swung open, Rafe’s midnight gaze impaled her. “Did you just fall down the stairs?” he asked, looking impossibly handsome in a black suit and crisp, white shirt, though his complexion seemed pale.

  “I just slipped a few steps. I’m fine. What’s going on?” she asked, descending more carefully to approach the door.

  He looked her over, his gaze still worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why are you here?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Jordan sent me here tonight to take you out to dinner. She’s out of the country,” he announced.

  “Oh, my God.” Jillian wilted against the door, beset by shock. “I had a bad feeling when I couldn’t get in touch with her,” she admitted.

  “I warned her not to go,” Rafe added somberly. “There’s a coup occurring in Caracas as we speak.”

  Jillian couldn’t speak. She closed her eyes and shook her head. The news left her cold and weak. “Graham, go find Agatha.” She could sense Graham hovering right behind her. He turned and stalked away.

  “You look pale, Jillian,” said Rafael, who still stood on the welcome mat. “Come sit with me out here.” With a warm, gentle grasp, he drew her outside and helped her ease onto the porch swing. He sat gracefully beside her, his sidelong gaze like a blanket. “I’m sure she has the sense to retreat to the American embassy,” he comforted.

  “Does she?” Jillian tossed back. “Does she have any sense whatsoever returning to that country? It took a platoon of Navy SEALs to get her out the last time, Rafael. What’s it going to take now?”

  “She’s living her life,” he pointed out gently. “The little boy she’s trying to adopt must mean the world to her.”

  “I hope she doesn’t get killed trying to get him out,” Jillian retorted. She tried to cling to her anger, but guilt and fear won out, and her eyes filled abruptly with tears. She looked away, not wanting Rafael to see them.

  He started to rock the swing, ever so gently, while she blinked back her tears and briskly wiped the corner of her eye. “It’s your birthday,” he pointed out, kindly.

  With a sniff, she glanced at him and mustered a smile. “Yes, it is.”

  His gaze drifted downward, over the cream-colored crocheted sundress she wore, the matching sandals, and the handbag in her lap. “You look beautiful.”

  She’d twisted her long, gold hair into a French knot, dabbed on perfume, a little makeup. She had thought, looking critically into the mirror earlier, that she looked fat, overly ripe, but his appreciative gaze didn’t make her feel that way.

  “I’ll understand if you don’t wish to go out still,” he continued, a little self-consciously.

  “Oh, I do.” She cut him off before he had the chance to back out. “Yes, I realize Jordan’s in a very dangerous place right now, and something terrible could happen to her. But until and unless something does, I’m going to enjoy my birthday because it’s the last time I’ll ever be this age.”
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  Rafael eyed her with what was clearly mixed respect and wariness. “Very well,” he conceded with his self-mocking smile. “We have reservations for seven-fifteen at Waterside.”

  “Let me say good-bye to Graham and Agatha, and I’ll be ready.”

  She didn’t invite Rafael inside for a reason. Graham stood over two halves of a ham and cheese sandwich, mutilating the bread with his vicious strokes as he slathered on the condiments.

  “But I don’t like mustard,” Agatha whined, watching him.

  “Tough,” he retorted. “You don’t always get what you want.”

  “Graham, Agatha, I’ll be home around ten o’clock,” Jillian casually announced. “Rafael is going to take me out in Jordan’s place.”

  Graham froze and glared up at her. “You’re dating already?” he accused.

  “I’m going out to dinner for my birthday,” Jillian answered, meeting his glare. “I think I deserve a couple of hours to enjoy my life, don’t you?”

  Graham was the first to look away. He screwed the lid down without answering the question.

  “Can I come?” Agatha pleaded. “I promise I’ll be good.”

  “Not tonight, honey,” said Jillian, giving her a hug. “You and Graham are going to watch Flicka on DVD, remember?”

  She brightened considerably. “Oh, yay!”

  “Call my cell phone if there’s an emergency,” Jillian said to Graham, kissing his cheek. “And you can still go to Cameron’s when I get back.” That was how she’d bribed him to babysit. “See you soon.” She headed for the door.

  “Mom.”

  She paused and looked back. “Yes, honey.”

  “Have fun,” he said, grudgingly.

  “Thank you,” she said, recognizing the effort it took for him to say that. “I hope you’ll have fun with Agatha, too.”

  “Yeah, right.” He slid the sandwich toward his sister.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With a groan for her aching feet and a little laugh at the recollection of Rafael’s disco-era moves on the dance floor, Jillian eased back the leather seat of his sleek black Lexus and sighed. “That was so much fun,” she admitted, chuckling again. “I had no idea you could dance like that.”