Page 3 of Hot Soldier's Rescue

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.

He looked startled. “Yes, actually. You are.”

“Then tell me where I can find the Army of Freedom and I’ll get out of here.”

The barkeep lurched. “What does a woman of the cloth want with people like that?”

“Church business,” she replied shortly.

The man frowned, but she didn’t elaborate. Valdiron Garza, Chief of Internal Security for the Colombian Army—better known as Chief of Terrorizing Anyone Who Tangled With Garza—had been arguably the most hated man in Colombia. He’d been an equal opportunity murderer, killing people on both sides of the armed conflict between the government and rebel insurgents. News that his children were nearby would spark a feeding frenzy of Garza’s victims out for revenge of their own against the kids. As much as she’d hated Garza, she couldn’t transfer that hate to a pair of innocent young children. In fact, her main emotion for them was fear for their safety. Not to mention she’d given Father Ambrose her word that she’d keep them safe.

The bartender left to fetch her soda and she risked a glance around the place. It was full of hard men with harder gazes. They didn’t like her being here and they weren’t afraid to let it show. Wimple or no wimple, it made her nervous. Very nervous. Missionaries got murdered and nuns got assaulted in places like this.

A bottle of grape soda slammed down onto the table before her and she jumped. “What do I owe you?” she asked.

“On the house if you’ll take it and leave now.”

She sensed a subtle warning in the man’s voice. If she stayed any longer, she would get into trouble. Panic leaped in her throat. This place, this whole cursed country, scared her to death. And frankly, she wasn’t the type to run around facing down her fears for fun. Every cell in her body screamed at her to get out of here and go home to nice, safe, New York City.

She slid out of the booth, grabbed the warm bottle and stepped out into the muggy afternoon. Today was overcast and relatively cool—only in the mid-eighties. She remembered all too well how this place felt on a hot day with the sun beating down. Saunalike. As it was, she felt as though she was swimming down the street.

Now what was she supposed to do? She had no further plan for locating the Army of Freedom beyond asking in the cantina. She headed for a little park she’d spotted from the bus on the way into town. As she walked, she sipped at the soda. Yuck. It tasted like cough syrup.

A cement park bench beckoned and, weak-kneed, she sank onto it, overcome by her terror. Squeals of laughter came from a small playground in the park, but even the joy of children couldn’t convince her this place was anything other than a hellhole promising death to her.

“Mind if I sit, Sister?”

She jerked sharply. Her gaze snapped up to the tall, dark silhouette belonging to the quiet baritone. “Uh, no.”

He sank to the bench beside her but still towered over her. “What brings you to Santa Lucia, ma’am?”

Her heart raced even harder. An urge to run screaming nearly overcame her. She choked out, “Who’s asking?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. Whoops. That probably didn’t sound nunlike enough. She amended hastily, “I go where the Lord sends me.” There. Better.

“Gustavo said you were asking after the Army of Freedom.”

Wow. That was fast for word to have gotten to the Army that she was asking about them. She wasn’t sure if she was more dismayed or relieved that things hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d been in this godforsaken corner of the world. “Who’s Gustavo?”

“Bartender.”

“Aah.” She waited for the man to continue, but he didn’t. It gave her a chance to study his chiseled features. His skin was walnut-stained brown and his short black hair neat and curly, speaking of an African heritage. But his eyes were a contrasting golden hazel that fairly glowed against his dark coloring. And those shoulders! Aye, caramba. Muscles bulged in all the right places. A fine specimen of a man, to be sure—she broke off the train of thought abruptly—she was supposed to be a nun, for crying out loud. Lest he spot the rich appreciation in her eyes, she looked down hastily.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well what?”

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