Undercover Wife. Debra Webb
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him. “I was certain there’d be a sleeping bag on the ground in there.” She tried for a smile, but didn’t quite make it. She was just too tired and this was all far too overwhelming to work up enough enthusiasm no matter how hard she wanted to.
But it’s real, she kept telling herself. And she was free. That’s all that mattered, right?
Erin glanced around at the dozen or so armed men moving about. Well, maybe free wasn’t precisely the right word.
“After I’ve evaluated your strengths and weaknesses, we’ll move on to the finer details you’ll need for this mission.”
Here she was, way down in Mexico, right next to Guatemala if memory served her correctly, and she hadn’t a clue why she was here. “Can you tell me more about the mission?” A girl could ask, she mused.
“This way, Bailey,” he offered in reply, smoothly changing the course of the conversation, as well as her little sight-seeing tour.
The next building they entered was one of the largest and very dimly lit. An oily smell she couldn’t readily identify hit her nostrils with the first breath she took. She squinted to better make out the boxes stacked around the room. Crates, she realized, wooden crates. Logan paused at the first one of three she counted. She peered inside. Instinctively she drew back at what she saw.
Guns. Lots of guns.
“M9 Personal Defense Weapon,” Logan announced as he displayed one of the mean-looking guns from the crate. “Weapon of choice in personal defense.”
“M4 Carbine,” he went on, putting the first one aside and reaching for another, seemingly oblivious to her appalled expression. “Lightweight, magazine fed, selective rate, shoulder fired weapon. Even in tight quarters, a target can be engaged at extended range with accurate, lethal fire. Every terrorist’s wet dream.”
“Wait!” Erin backed away another step, her heart beginning to hammer. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me about these weapons?”
Tears welled unbidden. This was insane and what was worse she was going to cry. She hated crying. It made her feel weak. “I don’t know anything about guns or terrorists or even personal defense.” She lengthened the distance between them by another step, blinking furiously to hold back the infuriating tears. “Just tell me the truth, Logan. What am I doing here?” She flung her arm toward the weapons he appeared to gloat over. “What is all this?”
His glare was as lethal as the weapon he held in those strong, too capable hands. “This,” he ground out, “is just a taste of what you need to know.” He put down the weapon and started in her direction. She wanted to run, but froze instead. Those dark, dark eyes held her in a kind of trance. “You have six days, Bailey. Six days to learn what I have to teach you. And this is only scratching the surface. Then we go in, ready or not.”
She trembled. “What if…what if I can’t do it?” She couldn’t. She was suddenly as sure of it as she’d ever been of anything in her whole life. This was impossible. She couldn’t do this. Not for freedom, not for vengeance, not for anything.
Logan stopped mere inches from her, staring down at her with a face wiped clean of emotion. Her pulse thundered with the fear exploding inside her.
“Then you have six days to live,” he said quietly, so damned quietly she wanted to scream. “Because on the seventh, we’ll both be dead.”
Chapter Three
She’d slowed down considerably. Logan resisted the urge to slow his own pace. She had to keep up or at least attempt to. Even if he had the luxury of time, which he didn’t, there was no place in any of this for misguided sympathies or regrets. She’d signed on to do this despite the numerous opportunities he’d given her to change her mind, opportunities he’d had no authority to give. But he’d needed to be sure.
For five days now he had pushed Erin Bailey hard. She’d held up far better than he’d expected, but it was catching up to her now. Again he forced away the need to look over his shoulder and check on her. Five days and he still hadn’t concluded his evaluation, was far from certain about anything. Sure, she managed to scrape by physically. She’d obviously been a runner before checking into Atlanta’s premiere federal resort. But holding up physically wouldn’t be enough. She had to be able to take the mental pressure.
He clenched his jaw and commanded his body to move forward, his long legs eating up the ground beneath him as his second wind kicked in, sending endorphins rushing through his veins. The hot desert sand sucked at his running shoes while the scorching morning sun milked the sweat from him, but he ignored both. He banished images of Erin Bailey’s struggle to keep up. She spent entirely too much unnecessary time in his head lately. He didn’t want to think about her as a person…only her ability to perform as his partner and the mission.
The mission…nothing else mattered.
“I can’t go any farther.”
Logan wanted desperately to disregard the feeble cry that came from some ten meters behind him. He wanted this mission over, wanted to pretend that certain death wasn’t lurking a mere forty-eight hours away. He slowed to a stop, braced his hands on his hips and took a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself really, before double-timing it back to where Bailey had stalled. She was bent over at the waist, her palms resting on her knees for support. He didn’t have to look to know that her arms and legs would be quivering with weakness. He’d pushed her harder today than the last two put together.
“Suck it up, partner, it’s five miles back to camp.” He swiped away the sweat rolling down his forehead. “We don’t have all day.”
She dropped to her knees in the sand, then stared up at him, squinting against the sun at his back. “I said—” she gasped for breath between each word “—I have to rest.”
He shifted just enough to allow the sun to beat down more fully on her. Her right hand automatically went up to shield her face. “While you’re resting,” he suggested, obviously going soft since he didn’t have it in him to drag her to her feet, “tell me about yourself.”
A few seconds passed before she responded. In that time Logan noted far more than he wanted to. Her blond hair, though pulled back in a ponytail, was mussed and slipping loose now. Long, silky wisps clung to the damp skin of her neck. Her face was flushed with exhaustion. Heavy-duty sunscreen was all that kept her delicate complexion from burning beneath the sun’s savagery. The rapid rise and fall of her chest stole his attention momentarily and before he could stop it. Her sweat-soaked T-shirt clung to her, outlining her breasts and disrupting his own heart rate.
“My name is Sara Wilks.” She scrubbed both hands over her face, then dropped them to her knees and pushed to her feet. She took a moment to regain her equilibrium and Logan resisted the urge to reach out and steady her.
She frowned petulantly. “But you call me Baby.”
She didn’t like his pet name for her, but it was the easiest way to go considering he didn’t have time for her to get used to Sara. He’d called Jess “Baby” often enough in front of the right people for it to work. Both he and Jess had taken variations on their own names for their cover. As far as Esteban was concerned, he was Logan Wilks and Jess was his wife Sara.
“I’m twenty-five,” she continued, then sucked in a desperate breath. “And I’m from Atl—”
He bit back the curse that sprang to the tip of his tongue. “You’re from where?” he demanded sharply.
“Austin,” she spat, shading her eyes once more so that she could glare at him. “Austin, Texas. I like guns…any kind. And if you mess with me, I’ll kill you.”
She said the last with a little more conviction than usual. Logan had the distinct impression that she meant it. “How long have we been together?” He started to walk, turning back to see that she followed.
“Three years.” She smiled saccharinely