Show No Fear Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  A thumping noise in the hotel room next door brought Gus’s eyes wide open. He had just lain down, drained by their mentally exhausting dinner with Carlos, doomed to suffer dreams of Lucy imperiled in the jungle. It was 11:30 p.m., and by the sound of things she was still awake, doing jumping jacks.

  He already knew she rarely slept. His sources claimed she liked to run at night, up to ten miles at a time. Maybe she was warming up for a run.

  At night in New York City?

  He sat up with a start, throwing off the covers. Surely she was smarter than that.

  In the dark, he fumbled for his sweatpants, searched for his socks and sneakers. He was jamming his head through a T-shirt when her door thudded shut.

  Shit!

  Feeling a little like a stalker, he peeked outside his own door in time to see her turn the corner. She had changed out of a tiny black dress and into shorts, a jogging bra, and tennis shoes. She wouldn’t thank him for trying to dissuade her from a run, any more than she’d thanked him for suggesting she turn down the assignment. Doing that had driven a wedge between them that even Carlos had detected, urging them to reconcile their differences before the outset of their trip.

  There was no time like the present, thought Gus. With their plane departing in two days, they might as well strike a truce. As partners, they had to think and act as one.

  Darting down the hallway, he turned the corner in time to see the elevator close with her inside it. Punching the button for a second elevator, he waited to see where she stopped—the mezzanine level, where the indoor gym was located. Of course, she wasn’t so stupid as to go for a run outside.

  By the time he joined her in the glass-enclosed fitness center, she was running like a mouse on a wheel, flying like the wind and getting nowhere.

  The look of surprise on her face was worth losing sleep for. He was glad to see they had the place to themselves.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, removing a pair of earbuds.

  His gaze slid to the alluring expanse of her bare abdomen, which looked smooth and supple and perfectly feminine despite her level of fitness.

  He stepped onto the treadmill next to hers and powered it up. “Might as well get used to it,” he countered. “From now on, where you go, I go. That’s how it works in the jungle.”

  For a moment they ran wordlessly, side by side. Worried that she might stick her earbuds back in, he said abruptly, “Carlos suggested we bury the hatchet. Maybe we should talk.”

  Her continued silence forced an apology from him first. “Look, I’m sorry for my negative response this afternoon. If you were in my shoes, you’d have done the same thing,” he assured her.

  She flicked a considering glance at him but held her thoughts to herself, keeping aloof.

  “Is there anything you wanted to ask me?” he offered in desperation. “You know, to even the playing field.”

  Another considering glance. “Okay,” she relented. “How long have you been a SEAL?”

  “Five years,” he replied.

  “But nine-eleven happened eight years ago,” she pointed out, her expression not without sympathy.

  Eight years later, his heart still cramped with grief whenever the subject came up. “My father would’ve expected me to finish school,” he explained. “So I got my master’s and then I went to Navy OCS. I needed the time to get in shape before I enrolled in BUDs.” Officer Candidate School had been a walk in the park compared to BUDs.

  “Did you make it the first time?” she asked, clearly cognizant of the rigors.

  “Rolled out the first time with a strained Achilles tendon. I made it the second time, did two years of qualification training, and went to Afghanistan with SEAL Team Three,” he added, recalling a hot, dry wind, the fear of never knowing where the enemy was.

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “I wanted to understand the enemy. That’s what drew me to intel in the first place. To understand them is to beat them, right?”

  She grimaced, astute enough to understand that the question was rhetorical. “So, how long have you been loaned out to the agency?”

  “Three years,” he said, knowing what was coming next.

  “Why didn’t you just look me up instead of spying on me?”

  Was that irritation in her voice, or had he hurt her feelings? “Keeping tabs isn’t spying,” he rationalized. “Besides, you wanted your space. You made that pretty clear eight years ago.”

  She’d explained in a final e-mail to him that she was joining the CIA, cutting ties with the past—for her own protection, allegedly. Her message, followed six months later by his father’s death, had made 2001 the loneliest year of Gus’s life.

  “Why bother keeping tabs on me, then?” she demanded.

  She’d been the love of his life, the one he’d wanted to stay with forever. “Just curious,” he insisted, avoiding her gaze.

  He hadn’t been able to help himself. The first week the agency had acquired him, he’d made inquiries, only to be dissuaded by rumors of Lucy’s fearlessness. Thoughts of rekindling a relationship recoiled in the face of reckless devotion to Uncle Sam. His own job was dangerous. He couldn’t afford to extend his heart to a woman with an immortality complex.

  “So when did you train in the jungle?” she wanted to know.

  “Last year in Venezuela. A group of us went to train the Elite Guard so that the moderates had a fighting chance.”

  “And then they switched sides,” she finished, visibly quelling a shudder.

  “You should never have gone back to that warehouse,” he scolded, glimpsing its lingering effect on her.

  Jade green eyes flashed in his direction. “Look, it’s over. Just drop it, will you?”

  “Is it really?” he countered skeptically. “Can you tell me you don’t think about it every time you close your eyes to sleep? Is that why you don’t sleep, Luce?”

  Without warning, she slammed the red button on the display before her, bringing her machine to a sudden halt. “What are you implying? That I have PTSD?” she demanded, breasts rising and falling as she turned to grip the handrail and to glare at him.

  Powering down his own machine, he faced her squarely. He could smell her perfume, warmed by the heat of her body. Combined with the anger in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks, the scent was intoxicating. “Who wouldn’t have PTSD after an experience like that?” he reasoned gently, wishing she’d just let him take her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay.

  “Get out,” she ordered, jerking her chin at the exit. “You’re wasting your breath trying to talk me out of this assignment. Just go. Get some sleep. I’ll see you on the plane to Bogotá.” Turning her shoulder on him, she powered up her treadmill once again, cranking it to high as she stuck the earbuds back in and took off.

  So much for trying to bury the hatchet. With a nod of defeat, Gus stepped off the treadmill and headed for the door. Sadly, the rumors regarding Lucy Donovan were true. She was a maniac, devoted to her career.

  At the rate she was going she would run herself into the ground before her thirtieth birthday.

  LUCY SHOOK TWO ADVIL TABLETS into her hand and regarded them in her palm, lit up by the bright sunlight shining through the airplane window. The 747’s jet engines hummed serenely at an altitude of fifty thousand feet. The hour was fast approaching when over-the-counter pain medication would be a luxury she could only wish for, right up there with clean socks and a toothbrush.

  Gus dropped into the seat beside her, startling her. It wasn’t fair that men could pee so fast. “What’s hurting?” he demanded in Spanish, spying the little pills in her hand.

  She had discovered the other night that, yes, Gus now spoke fluent Spanish, but with a slight American accent that hopefully none of the European UN team members would detect. Carlos had suggested he tell everyone he had a Danish grandmother. That would also explain his height and coloration.

  “I have a headache,�
�� she lied, tossing back the pills with the remainder of her Sprite. Truth was, the spot where her microchip was planted, on the back of her right hip, was throbbing.

  Gus’s protective hovering set her teeth on edge. Through prescription-free lenses, similar to the glasses he’d worn before the navy paid for corrective laser surgery, he studied her with grave concern. The glasses were part of his cover, meant to downplay his over-the-top physical condition and make him look more like a geek. Thanks to his intelligent demeanor, he managed to pull off the illusion.

  Since taking off from Dulles on this nonstop trip to Bogotá, Colombia, he’d surprised her by showering her with the gentle affection of a new husband, treating her much the way he had when they were dating, not at all like the SEAL who’d tried scaring her off this assignment two days ago.

  “Are you sure it’s not your hip?” he murmured, annoying her with his acuity.

  “Positive,” she retorted, jiggling the ice chips in her cup.

  “Can you look at me and say that?”

  Turning her head, she sent him a hard glare, but lying straight to his face wasn’t easy. “I’m positive,” she repeated.

  “You know, it’s not too late to turn around, Luce,” he mentioned quietly.

  In Spanish, her shortened name came out as luz, meaning “light.” Lucy sucked in a tight breath. “My parents are having marital problems, okay?” she hissed, bringing up a situation that had weighed on her thoughts since she’d limped into her apartment after her microchip procedure and discovered her mother had moved in with her.

  His expression of dismay would’ve been comical if the subject wasn’t so touchy. “Damn,” he muttered. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Lucy popped an ice chip in her mouth and pulverized it between her teeth.

  “How long have they been married?” he asked her quietly.

  “Twenty-nine years,” she replied, peering into her cup for another ice chip.

  “They’ll work it out,” he reassured her. “It’s probably just a bump in the road of life.”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed with worry. “My mother’s living in my apartment.”

  “So that’s what’s bothering you,” he said with a thoughtful nod.

  “Yes,” she retorted.

  “You’re sure you’re being honest with yourself.”

  Lucy’s temper simmered. “Yes,” she repeated. “Would you drop it already? We’ve already been through this. I am not backing out,” she added in English.

  Without warning, his mouth covered hers, muffling further words.

  Lucy’s breath caught in her throat at the feel of his smooth, warm lips against hers. Memories, unsettling for their blinding sweetness, caught her off guard.

  The pressure eased. “Cuidado,” he whispered against her lips. Careful. They were supposed to remain a hundred percent faithful to their covers, speaking only in Spanish.

  Did he think he could manipulate her at will? Offended by his heavyhandedness, she kissed him back, wresting the reins of control away. He stiffened as she slipped her tongue between his teeth. He met her stabbing tongue with a gentle, sensual parry of his own, and pleasure rippled through her.

  Alarmed, she drew back. His taste and texture were still familiar, but his confidence bespoke sexual experience that sparked an immediate and powerful response. With the feeling she had unwittingly opened Pandora’s box, she drew back.

  For a moment they gazed warily into each other’s eyes.

  “Just curious,” she whispered, explaining her impulse with a shrug, using the same explanation he had used the other night.

  With a tight look, he straightened in his seat and sat back, thoughtfully quiet.

  Lucy turned her warm face toward the window and peered down, dismissing her actions as an aberration.

  Far below them, the coast of Venezuela drew a skirt of sand out of the tourmaline waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It was down there that she’d been stripped of her confidence in the first place.

  She was coming back to reclaim it—not in Venezuela, exactly, but in neighboring Colombia. As tough as it was for her to admit, she couldn’t do this without Gus. She would have to rely on him to cope with the jungle’s rigors—that was no doubt true. But once this assignment was over, she’d be stronger and more self-reliant than ever. PTSD would be a thing of the past.

  PERCHED ON A PLATEAU in the Andes Mountains, nine thousand feet above sea level, Bogotá sprawled as far as the eye could see. Seven million people living in one place had clustered into neighborhoods of differing wealth and ethnicity. To the north, a chain of mountains created a scenic backdrop for the wealthy.

  The airplane floundered through the thin air, then bumped down on the runway at El Dorado International Airport. As the unique scent of South American soil stole through the open door, uneasiness roiled in Lucy’s stomach, congealing into something approaching fear as she exited the plane. I can do this, she assured herself, stealing guilty reassurance from Gus’s hand as they strode along the boarding platform into the terminal.

  Bypassing baggage claim, they headed straight to customs with their backpacks, submitting them to a laughably lax inspection. Colombia wasn’t big on catching smugglers, evidently.

  “What is the nature of your visit?” inquired the bespectacled official at their next hurdle—immigration.

  “Business,” Gus answered for the two of them, and Lucy nudged his toe, reminding him to let her do the talking.

  The man frowned down at their false passports. “You’re with the UN?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” said Lucy, her stomach churning. Carlos had warned them during the in-briefing that the Colombian army would jump at the chance to follow a UN team into the rebels’ hideout. Yet nothing was more guaranteed to get the hostages killed.

  “Which areas of Colombia will you be visiting?” he asked.

  “We’re staying in Bogotá,” Lucy lied. If rumors of an arriving UN team were circulating airport security, this man might report their arrival to the army.

  “At which hotel?” he pressed.

  Lucy shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We don’t have reservations.”

  Pursing his mouth with disbelief, he stamped their passports. His myopic gaze glinted watchfully as he slid them under the glass partition. “Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy breathed.

  Gus snatched up their passports and propelled her toward the exit. Shouldering her backpack, Lucy glanced casually back.

  “He’s making a phone call,” she warned.

  “Walk faster,” Gus urged.

  With a firm grip on her elbow, he drew her into the crowd thronging toward the glass doors. Together they scanned the crush of humanity for Carlos, who’d promised to pick them up.

  Lucy spotted him first, lounging beside an advertisement for the TransMilieno rapid-transit system. At their approach, the Spaniard turned and marched ahead of them through the glass doors.

  Humid air, choked with the smell of car exhaust, enveloped them as they hurried after him. Carlos had waved down a taxi. He yanked open the rear door for Gus and Lucy. “Get in,” he urged, his dark eyes snapping.

  Lucy dove into the rear with Gus immediately behind her. “Hotel Hacienda Royal,” said Carlos, jumping into the front.

  “Sí, señor.” The driver peeled into traffic and immediately switched lanes, overtaking the taxi in front of it.

  Lucy groped for a nonexistent seat belt. “Do we have company?” she asked, catching Carlos’s eye as he peered over his shoulder to look behind them.

  “I dare anyone to catch us,” he replied as their driver veered into the oncoming lane, going head-to-head with a busload of passengers before lurching back onto the right side.

  Dear God.

  “How was your flight?” Carlos added as the taxi rumbled along boulevards of hand-laid brick.

  “Good,” said Gus, shaking off his backpack and digging out a small, oddly shaped cell phone. Lucy recognized it as the device he
would hide inside his hiking boots. The heels of both boots were hollow, allowing him to stow his phone in one, a spare battery in the other. She watched him dial a lengthy number with quick thumb work. Leaning toward him, she hoped to overhear snatches of his conversation.

  “Buenas tardes,” Gus casually greeted the man who answered. “We’re here. Do you see us?” he asked in Spanish.

  One of his buddies, already situated at the Joint Intelligence Center within the U.S. embassy, answered with an affirmative. Their microchips were working. Gus murmured that they’d arrived on time to make their appointment that afternoon. Then he dropped the phone into his shirt pocket.

  Everything was going as planned. The knowledge eased Lucy’s agitation, giving her assurance that she would soon regain her equilibrium. She would be exactly as she was before—composed and fearless.

  The vision of the queen-sized bed as she entered their hotel room minutes later brought her up short. Considering Gus’s broad shoulders, sleeping together on a bed, even that size, was going to resemble a contact sport. Remembering the spark that their kiss had ignited, she couldn’t help but imagine that sex would be devastating. Only she would never get that carried away. Fraternization was discouraged by the CIA. Sexual involvement tended to dull awareness and cloud judgment.

  “Nice room,” said Gus, tossing his backpack on the luggage rack. He sent her a nonverbal cue to help him sweep it for bugs.

  The methodical procedure focused Lucy’s scattered thoughts. “Clear,” she declared, sinking into the overstuffed chair by the window. The answering twinge in her right hip made her wince.

  Gus saw her do it. He froze, his eyebrows sinking slowly together as he glared at her. “What was that?” he demanded in English.

  “What was what?” she said, going with denial.

  “Your incision is bothering you,” he guessed, pitching his voice low in deference to the thin walls.

  “It’s fine,” she insisted. “I’m a little sore, that’s all.”

  “Maybe it’s infected,” he persisted, folding his arms across his chest.

  “How can it be infected? I’m popping doxycycline. That’s an antibiotic, right?”