Page 6 of Hot Soldier's Rescue

Enrique, suggestible as always, nodded. Not the brightest bulb in the bin, that guy. But he was a hell of a fighter with fists or a knife, and he commanded his men’s fear and respect. “Get to work, woman.”

Ted sat back, amused, as she marched over to the sluggish fire like a tiny general and examined the haphazard pile of cooking utensils critically.

“I need a basin of clean water,” she announced. “These don’t look like they’ve been washed in months. It’s a wonder you’re not all dead of food poisoning.”

In short order, she was giving commands in that sultry-soft voice of hers, and hardened fighters were racing around gathering the supplies she’d need to make a proper meat filling for the puffy breads in the pan over the fire. It took a good chunk of the afternoon for the feast to come together, but finally, a plate was passed to him and he sunk his teeth into a meat pastry that melted in his mouth. Groans of delight broke out all around him. The nun had just bought herself another day or two of life. She was safe until the next time she crossed Enrique’s uncertain temper.

Darkness fell abruptly in the jungle and the night sounds grew loud around the isolated camp. A fire crackled pleasantly and everyone not posted to guard duty lounged around it, savoring a surprisingly tasty local beer that had been broken out as a treat to go with the nun’s delicious arepa feast.

“Tell me about that deal you did in Africa a few months back, Drago. I hear it changed the course of a war.”

Ted’s face froze. Crap. What deal? This was exactly what he’d feared would happen when he tried to impersonate the real Drago Cantori.

“Which one?” he asked casually. “Libya?”

The rebel leader frowned. “No. Tunisia.”

“Aah. That war,” Ted replied, hoping he didn’t sound as lame as he felt.

Enrique examined him far too closely for comfort. “You’ve turned the tide of more than one war, then?”

Ted shrugged. “I merely provide the tools. What men do with them is up to them.”

The nun sniffed in displeasure, but he ignored her, concentrating on reading Enrique’s body language. It was vital that the guy buy his line of bull.

“How big was the shipment you sent to Tunisia?” Enrique persisted. “How many guns did it take to tip the tide of the uprising into a victory? What kind of weapons did you sell them?”

Nothing in their file on Drago Cantori had indicated that he’d done business in that north-African nation. Ted cast back in his memory for surveillance images he’d seen from that conflict. The freedom fighters had carried mostly outdated, bolt action rifles and basic grenade launchers.

He answered cautiously, “They got mostly surplus weapons from eastern Europe. A few grenade launchers. Ammunition was what they were really desperate for.”

“But what about that surface-to-air missile? The one that shot down that Tunisian fighter jet that all the news agencies filmed going down in flames?”

Drago’d sold that thing to the rebels? His colleagues had speculated for months over where that had come from. Some people had believed it was a Tunisian Army missile either shot by accident at a friendly target, or perhaps by a turncoat within the Tunisian army.

“Where’d you get the missile?” Enrique insisted.

“Russia,” Ted answered shortly.

Enrique looked confused. “I thought you said it was French.”

Damn, damn, damn. This guy had communicated with the real Drago at some point in the past? Ted answered quickly, “The missile was French-made. But I got it in Russia.” He didn’t like that suspicious look in Enrique’s eyes one bit. This guy smelled deception and had enough experience to listen to his instinct.

The nun broke the tension of the moment by announcing, “Well, I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me if I start praying for your soul.”

He turned to her gratefully, eager to draw everyone’s attention to her and away from his gaffes. “I’m just doing my job, Sister. Someone has to do it, so why not me?”

“You provide weapons that kill people,” she stated.

“How is what you do any different?” he demanded.

“I heal the people your guns shoot!”

He shrugged. “Same difference. You patch these men up so they can go back to war and kill some more. You’re helping the rebels as much as, or maybe even more than, I am.”

The rebels laughed and commenced ribbing the nun about whose soul needed the most praying for, and he let out a careful breath. That had been close. Too close.

As men started drifting away to their tents, Ted noticed to his disgust that Enrique and a few of his top lieutenants were eyeing the pretty nun again. He leaned over to ask her under his breath, “You don’t happen to have a tent in that satchel of yours, do you?”

---