Page 92 of Vaquero
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Okay, so she shouldn’t have convinced Marta to trade places with her. She shouldn’t have lied to Captain Dooley, either. But when the call came from the Brazilian mainland, demanding the return of all under-age Brazilian citizens, including Dominic, Meg had no choice. Dooley had agreed to return her children on one condition: that Marta and Craig be allowed to continue as their caregivers.
In the end, this was actually the perfect outcome. Meg needed to contact a Brazilian adoption agency. She could do that as soon as she landed. After she filled out their required paperwork, and by the time they’d searched their official records and proved once and for all that Dom was truly without family, her thirty days in-country requirement would be satisfied. Dom would be hers, and she would finally be his real Mum.
Meg kissed the top of his sleepy head as the Blackhawk lifted up from the deck. At the moment, all of her kids were buckled in and harnessed. All wore their spiffy new Navy jackets, also helmets that included ear protection. All were also chewing on strips of red licorice, courtesy of Lucas Giacomo. Meg was going to miss the men and women of the carrier. They were all heroes in her book.
But this was why she’d overdressed in multiple layers, then covered those layers with Marta’s blouse, long skirt, and topped the disguise off with her Navy jacket. To fool all those kind sailors, and to get back to Brazil with her children. They needed her more than she needed protection. Whoever was supposedly out there gunning for her must not realize she’d been trained by the US Army. Weren’t they in for a surprise?
Meg almost felt bad for those two brave Navy guards outside her room. Captain Dooley wouldn’t be happy when Marta walked out of that room—again—instead of Meg. Shit would definitely hit the fan. But Marta was smart. She knew she was supposed to keep out of sight at least until tomorrow morning. By then, Meg, Craig, and the kids would be back in Minas Gerais. At least, that was the plan.
Man, the smell of the wild, gray Atlantic ocean was a beautiful thing. It filled Meg with energy at some primal level. Made her want to dig into parenthood with all she had. Made her believe she could do the impossible. What had Julio said?Believe what you are doing is right and good. Believe you are strong and just. That you are the right hand of God. That he will always send His archangels in your time of greatest need. Then, you will prevail.
Meg focused on doing just that. What she was doing was right and good certainly best for Dominic. She knew she wouldn’t be able to adopt all her children. Life just didn’t work out that way. She might not be as strong as Julio, either, certainly not right-hand-of-God strong. But she was strong enough. And she would prevail, no doubt about that. Hopefully—cross my fingers and hope to die—ultimately, she and Dom would be related by the time this adventure was over.
Was she fooling herself? Had she counted all her chickens before they’d hatched? Did she have her cart before her horse? Yes, yes, and oh, hell yes. But she’d lived through enough crap in her life to believe in the magic of Karma. Dominic would always be hers, one way or the other. If not legally, then by heart. Convinced she could do anything, she cast a silent but ferventprayer to the saintly woman Julio revered enough to wear her prayer on his chest.‘Madre de Dios! Please help me.’
Then she snuggled in for the noisy ride over the Atlantic. Before long the green ocean known as the Amazon rainforest lay below, its massive canopies rippling like waves in the brisk wind. A storm was headed inland, but for now, there was only a steady easterly wind. Which suited her just fine. With a wind at their back, this helo was making good time. Her secret was safe.
Soon this helo would bank southward, and before long, Meg and her kids would be back in Minas Gerais. They weren’t being delivered to the Highlands, though. Which was good as that poor excuse of an orphanage had seen its last days. Their destination today was a landing strip north of the beautiful city of Ouro Preto, the center of the richest mining district in Brazil.
Lucky for Meg, there was an outreach office in Ouro Preto for the Brazilian National Adoption Agency. She’d checked. Finally, everything was going her way.
*****
Julio loosened his grip on the overhead strap. Had to. His gloved fingers were numb.
Senator Sullivan had ordered another Blackhawk, this one out of Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, to get him into Brazil as swiftly and as legally as possible. His assignment: Apprehend and end Domingo Zapata with extreme prejudice.
The Nightstalker pilot this time around was Sergeant Ronald Churchill. An interesting name that brought to mind a damned brash United States President who’d challenged the liars of the world back in the nineties like a gun-slinging cowboy, combined with the upper crust of Britain’s finest. Ronald Reagan and Winston Churchill. Two rock-solid heroes, they’d made the world a better place during their times. Julio missed men of character and strength like those two lions. The only men who compared to them these days were covert giants like Senator Sullivan and a cocky former Marine living in Alexandria, Virginia. Alex Stewart.
While still working for President Adams, Julio had joined forces with Stewart during the operation that had ended another bastard with royal blood in his veins, Basheer Bagani. Until that mission, Julio had never worked for a man so intense. Even McQueen Sullivan couldn’t compare to the single-minded, attack trained Devil Dog, Alex Stewart.
How Julio wished Stewart were going into Brazil with him. It’d be nice to have someone trustworthy and capable on his six again. Someone who said what he meant and meant what he said. For the first time in years, Julio wanted a like-minded warrior at his side. He’d been an island of one too long. Sullivan needed to change his ROEs. Sending single assassins on missions to clean up the world’s messes might be expedient, but each lethal assignment was mentally exhausting and the solitude behind each kill was hard on the man behind the scope.
Turning his focus back to the scenery out the window, Julio was suddenly tired of being all he could be. He wanted back into the lush, warm comfort of Meg’s arms. Funny how sex worked. But while he’d filled her with his body, she’d filled him with her heart. She’d given him a soft place to land and a reason to want to live again. He didn’t want to lose those precious commodities. Because they weren’t just things; they were treasures he’d searched for all his life.
For now, this bird flew like a rocket. With Brazil’s permission this time, they’d already breached the country’s airspace and were over the rainforest, headed south to Minas Gerais where the older Zapata brother was most likely headed. His forbidding hole-in-the-rock complex of concrete bunkers, tunnels, and barriers, lay directly west of his brother’s original mine, OZ Metallurgy Mining, Inc. Not that the Zapata brothers were close. They weren’t. Had never been. Not even as boys. Not unless you called their numerous attempts at killing each other, close. Close calls, maybe, but not close in the way Julio was with the Sinclair brothers. Or Walker Judge.
The only good thing about this unexpected mission was knowing Meg was still aboard the carrier, and that Sullivan had ordered Dooley to place her into protective custody. She was safe.
But Julio worried for tiny Dominic. He had no way of knowing who that child’s father was, but he suspected Domingo Zapata. Which meant Dom had most likely been conceived through rape. Possibly brutal rape. That was Zapata’s way. Nothing Domingo had ever done hadn’t ended in blood and death. He wasn’t one to seek out ladies, unless they were ladies of the night. Or sex slaves.
That made more sense. The animal called Domingo had kept a harem of battered women at his bunker. Julio had seen them during his escape with Bianca and Tomas. There was no telling which woman had fallen for his lies, and had possibly, hopefully, for her sake, died after giving birth to his bastard son. Zapata would’ve killed her, otherwise. That was how he’d dealt with his women. Once he was done with them, he cut their throats. Unless this time, one of them had actually charmed him enough into letting them live long enough to bear his child.
Fate’s damned icy-cold fingertip slithered up Julio’s spine again.
Bianca had also been in that bunker, and she’d been there long enough to have submitted to Domingo’s ugly demands. What was worse, she certainly could’ve charmed him, especially if she’d known him from San Diego. Or if she’d supplied the information he’d needed to acquire a Navy SEAL, which Julio had been working his guts out to become back then.
Was that even possible? Could Bianca, the beautiful blonde woman Julio had once loved, be Dominic’s mother? Had she betrayed her husband, then her baby son, to please a black-hearted killer the likes of Domingo Zapata? Wasn’t that a mind fuck of off-the-chart proportions?
Julio crossed himself, instantly repentant for the filthy word he’d thought. But more because of the sins he suspected his wife had committed. Against him. Against Tomas. Worse, she would’ve been with Zapata while she’d left Tomas alone. A toddler, left alone to defend himself against an animal. Crying himself to sleep. Crying for his father.
¡Santa Madre de Dios!Cold, hard anguish ripped through Julio’s soul at all his son had suffered. For what?! To please a killer? To save herself? Deserting sweet little Tomas was bad enough, but the more Julio remembered, the more that scenario fit. Bianca hadn’t been housed with Tomas in the concrete, windowless cell when he’d located his son.
His throat went dry at that tender recollection. Tomas hadn’t even cried when Julio had picked him up. He hadn’t remembered his father. Only Zapata. The monster behind Julio’s son’s nightmares.
Agent Coltrane was the one who’d led Julio to Bianca’s cell at the opposite end of the bunker. It all came back to Julio. Bianca’s room had still been one of concrete, but it had been clean and warm, had windows with curtains. A real bed. A lamp. A rocking chair. Simple amenities that no other rooms had.
