Melissa Cutler - Seduction Under Fire

Aaron met her gaze. The toughness he’d come to admire was still there, but shadowed by a hint of fear. As if maybe she’d done her own assessment of their odds and found them as bleak as he had.

From behind the cluster of men, a little girl with round, fearful eyes shuffled forward.

A tall, wiry man knelt next to her, whispering. She looked as though she was ready to run, but the man gripped her soiled red shirt tightly. She looked at Aaron and two tears rolled down her cheeks.

With a push from the man, she spoke in a mousy whisper in English. “We will send your picture to the American government.” After more prompting in Spanish, she continued. “Your government has one day to free the prisoners you took this week.” She paused and shook her head as more tears fell.

The man grabbed her frizzy black hair and shook her hard. “Habla ahora o no comerás esta noche.” Say it right now or you will not eat tonight.

For the first time in his life, Aaron wanted to hurt another human being. His nostrils flared as he struggled for self-control.

“Or … or …” the girl continued softly, “you will die.”

A man stepped forward with a camera and clicked twice. Aaron was certain he was captured in the picture displaying a sneer that matched the rage he felt. He wanted to shout at these men for defiling the girl’s innocence, but it would be stupid to reveal his understanding of their language. So he held his tongue as the man dragged the girl from the room. The rest of the crowd filed out and multiple locks clicked into place.

The atmosphere was heavy after the men left, punctuated only by the sound of Aaron’s labored, anger-fueled breathing.

“I know that girl,” Camille said, staring vacantly at the door. “That was Rosalia Perez.”

Camille was looking for a flaw in their captors’ plan, an opening in their defense—anything to take advantage of. Now that the drug had worn off and her mind and body could work in harmony, she began to think in earnest about escaping.

Almost a perfect square, the room showed little promise for their freedom. Though it had two doors, the one they’d entered through and another that opened to the courtyard, judging from the barred window adjacent to it, she felt safe in assuming both were locked. The concrete floor was barren except for their chairs. Not even a nail hung from the cracked cinder-block walls. No electrical outlets, no lights—nothing.

She squirmed, testing the knots, and felt a stinging pain in the side of her right hand. She groped with her fingers and found the source, a sharp barb where the rusty metal of the chair had eroded. That, she could work with.

Aaron’s voice cut through the silence. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”

Camille blinked. “I’m the one to blame. Whatever prisoners they want released, they must think I’m a good pawn since I went on national news today implicating Rodrigo Perez in the kidnapping of his daughter. He’s a major player in the—”

“I know who he is. He’s the next target of my task force because he’s running weapons through the desert. I’m the one who arrested the prisoners they want released.”

“Oh.” She pulled her face back, shock rendering her momentarily speechless. “Jacob said you’d joined a task force, but I didn’t know you had the authority to make arrests.”

“What did you think I do for a living?”

“You’re a Park Ranger. I figured you were cataloging cacti and leading hikes. How was I to know you were in the field hunting international fugitives?”

Aaron huffed. “You had no idea Park Rangers are fully sworn-in peace officers, same as you?”

“Er, nope.” And you can shut up about how ignorant I am, Mr. Perfect.

“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but you don’t get to take credit for getting us killed.”

She wiggled the rope. “Hey, we’re not dead yet. You can only take credit for getting us kidnapped.”

“We’re tied up in a barbed wire-rimmed compound in the middle of the Mexican desert, surrounded by men with assault rifles and God knows what else, without any money or transportation. Excuse me for not feeling very optimistic.”

Camille shrugged noncommittally. “Any idea where we are?”

“The Cortez Cartel has a stronghold in La Paz. Given the orientation of the water and the sparseness of the population, that’s my best guess.”

“I’ve never heard of La Paz.”

“It’s not very touristy, not like Cabo. ICE thinks the cartel works it like a mafia, with their fingerprints everywhere, even in the local police.”

“Is the Cortez Cartel Mexico’s most powerful?”

“Not by a long shot. That would be the La Mérida Cartel. Before he was arrested, their leader, Gael Vega, started his own militia that rivals the Mexican military in power.”

They were warned of their captors’ return by the sound of boots in the hall followed by clicking locks moments before the door opened. The man who had taken their horses entered holding a bottle of brownish water and a bowl of rice, followed by an armed guard who stopped in the doorway.

He held the water to Camille’s lips. She turned away, not about to let it pollute her body. The man chased her mouth with the bottle and nudged at her closed lips a few times. Poking her with a spoonful of rice, he shouted in Spanish and gestured to the window. When she didn’t relent, he moved to Aaron, who also refused. Only two minutes after arriving, the man and his guard left.

“Wish I’d paid more attention in my high school Spanish classes,” she grumbled.

“He said this is your last chance for food until he returns tomorrow morning. And that you would be stupid to refuse.”

Of course the Golden Boy spoke fluent Spanish. But she had to admit, the skill might come in handy when they escaped. And they would escape, she thought as she wiggled her wrists, teasing the rope against the barb.

Hours later, long after the room had gone dark and Aaron was only an outline as he sat in silence a few feet away, Camille felt the rope finally give. Her hands bore the evidence of her effort with countless scrapes and puncture wounds from the rusty barb. Thank goodness she kept up with her tetanus shot.

Once free, she bent to work on the ropes binding her feet.

“What the …?” Aaron said.

“Those idiots shouldn’t have used such old chairs. Mine had a sharp edge perfect for sawing rope.”

“Good thing, too, because the clock’s ticking, Blondie. We don’t have time—”

Camille’s first order of business as an escapee was to make one minor but vital point with Aaron. “Let’s get something straight—don’t ever call me Blondie again. Or Sweetie or Doll or any of those derogatory nicknames you’re so fond of. I hate it. Understood?”

“Okay, I got it.”

Satisfied, Camille began untying the rope around Aaron’s wrists.

“Like I was saying,” he continued, “we don’t have much time before frog man and his bodyguard bring us breakfast at gunpoint.”

Camille looked out the window at the first glow of predawn. If they were lucky, they had maybe an hour or two to devise a plan. “As far as weapons go, we’ve got this rope and these chairs, but that’s not enough. I’ve got another idea, but it’ll take some time to prep.”

“Care to explain?”

“Not yet.” What she had in mind would open her up to all kinds of ridicule, so she decided to keep mum until she was certain it would work. While Aaron freed his legs from the chair, Camille slipped to the darkest corner of the room and took off her bra.

Aaron’s heart pounded so loudly, he was surprised Camille couldn’t hear it. Without weapons to defend themselves, they were as good as dead. And what weapon could they find in this room that would be any match for automatic rifles?