Soldier's Rescue Mission Read online

  “I’m one of the good guys, dammit.”

  Her only chance to rescue two orphaned children meant Elise Omayo had to go undercover…as a nun. Yet braving the Colombian jungle was nothing compared to keeping her ruse up once she met Ted Fisher. The sexy solider was on his own danger-filled mission but he was also the only man who could help her.

  How had he gone from impersonating a deadly arms dealer to playing protector to a feisty nun? There was no denying Elise desperately needed his assistance, but their mutual attraction had the special ops officer thoroughly confused. Just what secret was Elise keeping…and could he uncover it before time ran out for them both?

  “We leave at first light.”

  “You leave at first light. I’m not done here.” Until she found those kids, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  He made a sound of disgust. “There’s no way I’m letting you stay in this camp without me here to run interference. You’d have been dead, or worse, several times already if I hadn’t intervened on your behalf.” His voice dropped to a bare thread of sound. “These men are brutal. Violent. No respect for your vocation. I won’t let you stay.”

  “It’s not your call,” she muttered back.

  He must have sensed her stubbornness because he huffed and finally retorted, “I’m bigger than you. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here by force if I have to.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  His golden eyes glittered in the faint flicker of the fire. “Try me.”

  * * *

  “Like” us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/RomanticSuspenseBooks and check us out at www.Harlequin.com!

  Dear Reader,

  When I was just getting started writing books, a very wise and famous author told me that the more books I wrote, the harder they would become to write. Alarmed, I asked her why, and she explained that I would find myself digging for deeper and more meaningful themes over the years. She warned me that they would become progressively harder to tackle. And of course, she was exactly right.

  In this book, I took on some of my most ambitious themes yet—guilt, redemption, the cost of revenge, the sacrifices we make for family. And, true to that wise author’s prediction, this book was particularly difficult to write. But I also learned something in the process. With a little laughter, a pinch of faith and a lot of love, all of us can overcome just about any obstacle life—or writing books—throws into our paths.

  My thanks to Ted and Elise for their shining example of how to find love and forgiveness in the midst of chaos. May we all learn a lesson from the two of them and their abiding and steadfast love for one another. I only wish for you, dear reader, as much joyful and fulfilling love in your life, in whatever shape it might take.

  It’s time now to sit back, kick off your shoes and enjoy Ted and Elise’s (entirely fictional) story of how they found one another. Happy reading!

  Warmly,

  Cindy Dees

  Cindy Dees

  Soldier’s Rescue Mission

  Books by Cindy Dees

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  †Soldier’s Last Stand #1665

  The Spy’s Secret Family #1673

  Captain’s Call of Duty #1684

  †Soldier’s Rescue Mission #1689

  Silhouette Romantic Suspense

  Behind Enemy Lines #1176

  Line of Fire #1253

  A Gentleman and a Soldier #1307

  *Her Secret Agent Man #1353

  *Her Enemy Protector #1417

  The Lost Prince #1441

  **The Medusa Affair #1477

  **The Medusa Seduction #1494

  †The Dark Side of Night #1509

  Killer Affair #1524

  †Night Rescuer #1561

  The 9-Month Bodyguard #1564

  †Medusa’s Master #1570

  The Soldier’s Secret Daughter #1588

  **The Medusa Proposition #1608

  †The Longest Night #1617

  Dr. Colton’s High-Stakes Fiancée #1628

  **Medusa’s Sheik #1633

  †Soldier’s Night Mission #1649

  Nocturne

  Time Raiders: The Slayer #71

  *Charlie Squad

  **The Medusa Project

  †H.O.T. Watch

  Other titles by this author available in ebook

  CINDY DEES

  started flying airplanes while sitting in her dad’s lap at the age of three and got a pilot’s license before she got a driver’s license. At age fifteen, she dropped out of high school and left the horse farm in Michigan, where she grew up, to attend the University of Michigan. After earning a degree in Russian and East European Studies, she joined the U.S. Air Force and became the youngest female pilot in its history. She flew supersonic jets, VIP airlift and the C-5 Galaxy, the world’s largest airplane. During her military career, she traveled to forty countries on five continents, was detained by the KGB and East German secret police, got shot at, flew in the first Gulf War and amassed a lifetime’s worth of war stories.

  Her hobbies include medieval reenacting, professional Middle Eastern dancing and Japanese gardening.

  This RITA® Award-winning author’s first book was published in 2002 and since then she has published more than twenty-five bestselling and award-winning novels. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at www.cindydees.com.

  This book is, of course, for the real Ted and Elise. You know who you are!

  Contents

  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 1

  Elise Omayo paused just inside the dim sanctuary of Our Lady of Sacred Hope to soak up the silence and peace of the place. If only she could believe in the things this edifice stood for. She’d give anything to truly embrace ideals like love and faith. Redemption. Now there was a concept. People like her didn’t get second chances. Not in this life, and surely not in the next. The best she could hope to do was live out the remainder of her days in a way that didn’t add any more to her self-loathing.

  “Elise! So good of you to come on such short notice. You look lovely as always.” Father Ambrose was a fussy little man, round and soft, but with piercing black eyes that cut through a person’s soul like twin lasers. Why he saw anything at all of worth in her, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

  “You said you have a problem. Of course I came.” It was the least she could do for the man who’d talked her down off that bridge five years ago. Literally. Sure, she’d been out of her mind with grief and painkillers and a cocktail of who-knew-what else. But he’d literally climbed up on that railing beside her and convinced her to give him a chance to show her something worth living for. He’d pulled a lost orphan off the streets, given her a home and a purpose, and helped her reach her goal of becoming a nurse. So, here she was. She owed him a favor. A big one.

  “Let’s go into my office. You look like you could use a nice cup of tea, dear.”

  Tea? Uh-oh. He must be working himself up to asking her a big favor. Frowning, she followed him.

  He hurried down the aisle, pausing briefly to cross himself in front of the altar. Funny how Father A. had never tried to make a Catholic out of her. He said it was God’s problem, not his. She wouldn’t have made a very good one, anyway, despite her grandmother’s best efforts over the years. Too many rituals, too much to remember. Not to mention that whole seven deadly sins busin
ess.

  She waited patiently while the priest made two cups of steaming hot tea, English-style. When he was finished doctoring it up, the drink tasted more like hot chocolate than tea. She took a sip, promptly burned her tongue, and set the cup down. “Cut to the chase, Father. What do you need? You know I won’t say no, so go ahead and blurt it out.”

  He sighed. “I’m hoping you will do something for me. Something possibly dangerous.”

  “How dangerous?” She didn’t exactly live for thrills and chills, but she’d never shied away from a little risk for a good cause. She’d been known to make house calls in the roughest neighborhoods of New York City in the name of a patient in need.

  “I need you to go to Colombia.”

  Colombia. The word rolled over her like a bad dream. Tangled images of jungle and death, poverty and blood, flashed through her mind’s eye for an instant before the grief slammed into her. She reeled with the power of it. Just when she thought she’d made her peace with her parents’ murders, something went and tore the scab off again like this, leaving a raw and gaping wound in her heart.

  Father Ambrose was speaking again. Struggling to breathe, she forced herself to focus on his words. “…pair of children have been orphaned in Colombia and are in need of assistance.”

  Translation: the kids were caught up in the armed struggle between the Colombian government and one of several paramilitary or drug smuggling organizations currently opposing it. She knew all too well what it was like to be a pawn caught in the middle of that brush war. Belatedly, she choked out, “Who are they?”

  “Mia and Emanuel Garza.”

  She was halfway out of her seat before the names barely crossed the priest’s lips. No. No, no, no. She saw where this was going. Valdiron Garza had murdered her mother and father. But then the import of the word “orphan” sank in. She sank back down into her seat. “He’s dead?” she croaked.

  “Yes, my child. He was gunned down in Cartagena a few weeks ago. It is over.”

  “‘It’ being her fruitless, and ultimately self-destructive, quest for justice against Garza. Although failing that, she’d have settled for simple revenge.

  The priest continued quietly, “I pray you will finally find the peace you seek.”

  “Who says I seek peace?” she demanded.

  “I do.”

  His simple statement caught her off guard. Forced her into a moment of sharp self-evaluation. Was he right? Did she seek peace? The answer startled her. Perhaps she did.

  “So Garza’s children are stuck in Colombia and looking for a way out. Surely you don’t expect me to go save them.”

  “They are children—”

  “Their father tortured and killed my parents!”

  “—and innocent—”

  “Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “How old are these kids?”

  “Six and four.”

  “Oh, my God. They’re babies. You want me to haul them around in a war zone in the jungle?”

  “No. I want you to bring them to me. I will find them decent homes here in America.”

  “What makes you think I won’t just kill them and have my revenge?” she demanded. The sweet taste of it battled on her tongue with the sour knowledge that the Garza children were too young to have participated in their father’s atrocities.

  Father Ambrose merely gave her a reproachful look. Okay, a reproachful look she deserved. She wasn’t a child killer any more than someone who could turn her back on anything small and innocent. Damn him!

  He knew she couldn’t say no to him. Why this favor? Why not something, anything, else? Something that didn’t involve a Garza? Something that didn’t involve going back to the killing fields of Colombia? Did he hate her for some reason?

  “Look, Padre. I know I owe you my life. And I know I told you to ask me any time, any place, for anything, and if it was in my power to do it for you, I would. But we’re talking about Valdiron Garza, here. He was a monster. My parents were peaceful missionaries, and he committed an atrocity against them. How do we know his children won’t be the same or worse? Are you sending me to rescue two more future psychopaths? How many people will they kill in their turn? Hundreds? Thousands? More? And besides. What makes you think I could get into and out of Colombia and live?”

  “They are very young children. There is plenty of time to mold them into kind, loving adults. And I thought perhaps you should go in dressed as a nun.”

  “A nun?”

  “Can you think of a better way to ensure your safety in such a dangerous country? It is a religious place. People will look out for you.”

  She snorted. “You are much more optimistic than I am that an ugly dress and a wimple will save me.”

  “And that is why I am Christian and you are not.”

  “I never said I wasn’t Christian.”

  “You never said you were, either,” he retorted gently.

  He had her there. In fact, he had her squarely over a barrel. She ought to blow off her promise to help him. Ought to get up and walk out of here right now. She sighed, frustrated. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. But someone who does is reportedly in Santa Lucia. A young man fighting with a rebel group.”

  “That’s down on the border with Bolivia, in the heavy jungle. It’s incredibly dangerous territory.”

  “That is why I called you.”

  “Expendable, am I?”

  “Hardly, Elise. But you are, without question, the most determined person I have ever met. And you know Colombia. If you promise to bring those children to me, you’ll move heaven and earth to do exactly that. I have complete faith in you.”

  “You have a great deal more faith in me than I do,” she replied bitterly.

  “Just so, my child. Just so.”

  “But I don’t look anything like him!” Ted Fisher stared, aghast, at the photo of the dead man. Even allowing for death’s pale patina, Drago Cantori was clearly a fair-skinned European and huge. Although Ted was no slouch in the muscles and fitness department—no special operator was—this Cantori guy looked as if he sucked down steroids like soda. “In case you haven’t noticed, boss, I am of African descent. This Cantori guy is…not.”

  His boss, Navy Commander Brady Hathaway, replied, “We believe Cantori never met his contact in South America. The Army of Freedom insurgents have no idea what he looked like or whether he was black or white. When you show up in place of Cantori they won’t know any different.”

  “You hope,” he retorted dryly.

  “Captain Fisher, you know more about weapons than anyone else in this facility, not to mention you think well on your feet and speak Spanish like a native. You’re the best man for the job.”

  And that was that. He was going undercover into the jungles of South America on an insanely dangerous op alone and impersonating a dangerous arms dealer. An arms dealer who’d been killed as a side effect of another op to capture Cantori’s sister. The mission had been a success and Annika Cantori, a prominent terrorist, was serving life in prison with no possibility of parole. She steadfastly refused to cooperate with the American government, however. Which meant he was on his own.

  Drago Cantori had been completely under the U.S. military’s radar until he’d surfaced a few months ago. Most of what they knew about his business affairs had been cobbled together from bits and pieces they’d managed to collect from various informants around the world. It was far from a complete picture of the man.

  He’d be flying blind for a lot of the mission as he tried to step into the man’s shoes and pass himself off as Cantori. Ted picked up the pitifully thin folder that contained everything they knew about the man he was supposed to impersonate. It wouldn’t take him ten minutes to memorize everything in here. Talk about going into a mission unprepared. This was a cluster bomb waiting to blow.

  Elise tugged at the ill-fitting cardigan sweater bunching up over a dreadful dress. She glanced down at her sensible shoes. They were shockingly comfortable, b
ut she doubted they could’ve been more hideous looking if someone tried to design them that way. They looked like black bricks on the ends of her legs. In this getup, she hardly needed the black wimple covering her hair to announce that she was a nun. Or at least, doing a darned good impersonation of one.

  Now to find the local cantina. That would be where anyone with any influence in Santa Lucia would hang out. It would’ve been a pretty little town with white, stucco buildings in the Spanish style, were it not for the general poverty and decay enveloping it. But then, the jungle was hard on everything. Car transmissions were torn up by the rutted roads, mildew destroyed textiles, and disease ran rampant in the tropical climate.

  It might have been another village three years ago. Different name, different patch of jungle. But the same hopeless desperation clung to the place. This was the Colombia that had cost her both of her parents in a moment of senseless violence.

  She hated this place, she hated this place, she hated this place. How Father Ambrose had manipulated her into doing this job, she still wasn’t quite sure. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell the priest where he could go, yet here she was. The man was an evil genius, collar or no.

  She passed a pair of women even shorter than her, which was saying something. She barely topped five foot two. Aah. There. A faded painting of a foaming beer mug beside a doorway. She ducked into the vestibule and pushed open a heavy, mahogany door.

  Every pair of eyes in the joint stared. That’s right. Nun in the house. Be afraid, boys. Very afraid. She slid into a booth and waited for the barkeep to come over to her resentfully.

  “I’ll have whatever soda you’ve got in a can or bottle,” she said in polite Spanish.

  “You planning to stay long?” the guy growled.

  Guilt and beer didn’t mix, apparently. In the two days she’d spent in this costume traveling here, the predominant reaction to her wimple from everyone had been reflexive shame. It would’ve been hilarious if she hadn’t been so worried about passing for a nun in this heavily Catholic country. “Am I bad for business?” she asked innocently.