The Redemption Of Jefferson Cade. Bj James
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teemed in Jefferson’s mind. They went unvoiced. When the jet was traded for another helicopter, time zones had been crossed and daylight had burned away like a candle. But the terrain was green and mountainous now. He needed no answers to know this was the last of a convoluted journey.
Rick flew with the same skill and concentration, skimming through mountain passes as he followed the snaking path of a river. At a waterfall he banked and climbed, then dropped into a valley crisscrossed by creeks and a river filled by another waterfall. The tin roofs of two buildings gleamed in the sun. The helicopter hovered, then set down with an ease that recalled the canyon landing.
Jericho was there, flanked by Simon McKinzie whom Jefferson had met only once. Tall and massive, a lean Goliath whose mix of French and Native American heritage was evident in his chiseled features and gleaming black hair, the sheriff should have dwarfed the older man. But on the strength of that single meeting at Jericho’s wedding, Jefferson had discovered no one could overshadow the silver-haired, bull-shouldered McKinzie. A man who wore the mantle of honor and authority as naturally as most men wore their own skins.
Yancey Hamilton, once Belle Terre’s bad boy and now a man with mysterious and powerful associations—associations that prompted Jefferson’s call for his help—waited a little distance away. Ethan Garrett, except for Simon the most unexpected element in this mix of different and unique men, stood by Yancey. Yet, on second thought, Ethan—who was the brother of Jefferson’s own brother’s wife and a man given to protracted, unexplained absences—fit perfectly in this mix of competent, enigmatic men. Men, Jefferson knew in a glance, for whom danger was a way of life. And honor their reason for being.
“Quite a welcoming committee,” he observed. “Because of the Argentine connection?”
“Is that a question?” Rick asked.
“An observation, Rick.”
“That’s what I thought. You know everybody?”
Jefferson’s gaze returned to the impressive gathering. “Except for Mr. McKinzie, I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”
Rick rose from his seat. “They’re still the men you knew, but you’re about to see another side of all of us. The side Simon McKinzie saw when he recruited us for The Black Watch.”
“Gentlemen.” Simon McKinzie addressed the men gathered in the office of his mountain retreat. A place where The Black Watch came only rarely. Even more rarely, civilians, as he considered those not a part of the clandestine government organization that he had formed by order of a past president, and had solely controlled in the many years since. “Summing up. According to his ongoing dossier, in aspiring to become the next drug czar of the world, Vicente Menendez was determined to buy certain connections in Argentina as an alternate route of distribution through virgin territory. He chose an older man, thinking he would be more vulnerable. But, Menendez didn’t reckon with the integrity and iron will of Paulo Rei. Nor was he prepared for a woman as spectacularly beautiful and accomplished as Rei’s wife.
“Señora Rei would be remembered by all of you as Merrie Alexandre. To all but Jefferson. To whom, I’m told, she has always been Marissa Claire, her true, given name. Then, there’s Rick, of course, who hasn’t met the charming lady. A condition we should rectify, hopefully and soon. Any questions, thus far?”
No one spoke and Simon continued. “Menendez assumed, for a price, not only would Rei’s honor be for sale, so would his young wife. We suspect that in underestimating his prey, Menendez revealed more of his operation than was prudent. Before he had understood Rei was a man whose honor was priceless, as was his wife’s loyalty. After the brief suspicion of a bomb, we have reason to believe that fearing exposure and infuriated by Señora Rei’s rejection, Menendez ordered their plane shot down over the sea.
“This was purely speculation based on the suspicions of an informant. Until Jefferson called Jericho, we had no reason to think Marissa Rei was alive. Even if we had, we wouldn’t have known where to look for her. Now we do. Because Jefferson recognized the need for secrecy, we just might succeed.”
“So, we’re going after her.” Playing devil’s advocate, Rick Cahill locked stares with Simon. “Why?”
“Because she’s an American citizen, born in America of an American mother. Because Menendez is also an American, one who destroys lives for profit. Because I want him.” A cold stare turned colder. “Does that answer the question?”
Without waiting for a response, Simon looked at his men. Each of whom possessed unique talents, unique abilities, and infinite loyalty. “So we go?”
“We go.” Rick spoke first. A surprise to no one, including Jefferson, who had learned many surprising things this day.
The land was rugged and breathtaking and vast. The sturdy horse he’d been provided was an excellent mount. The trail he rode was not difficult if ridden with concentration and caution. At his back, but beyond sight, lay the Alexandres’s Argentine estancia, an oasis in the heart of a plain. Ahead, the Patagonian Alps, a part of the continent-spanning Andes, sprawled like sleeping giants. That the woman who was his guide knew the land and its irregularities was immediately apparent. Jefferson’s only chore was to follow and keep Simon’s timetable.
So, ever cognizant of the hour, he followed and worried about what he would find at their destination. And what would happen to the good people who had helped Marissa when she and he, and Simon’s men of The Black Watch were gone.
Go with caution to the Alexandre estancia, to Marta Elia, wife of the foreman. Horses and a guide will be provided. The rest we leave to you.
The scant message that brought him here was a brand in his mind. One he would never forget. As he would never forget Marta Elia and her husband Juan. Marissa’s allies who offered secret sanctuary to a friend with no concern for the trouble they might bring down on themselves.
“If Menendez finds out…if he finds them…” Jefferson didn’t want to think of it. Instead he fixed his gaze on Marta’s back, and on little Alejandro, her three-year-old son, who clung like a limpet to her waist. When she’d ridden into the copse of stunted trees where she’d directed him to wait, he hadn’t expected she would be his guide, nor that she would bring the child.
At first, given the obvious need for both speed and secrecy, he was disturbed by the boy’s presence. But he needn’t have been. Alejandro had ridden for hours beneath the blazing sun and had never complained. As the terrain gave way to a series of small rocky hillocks to climb and descend, the trail required more attention. But not so much that Jefferson didn’t wonder how it would be to have such a son. Or perhaps a daughter.
He would have been startled at a thought so foreign to what he expected his life to be, if Marta hadn’t slowed her horse and announced quietly, “We are here, señor.”
The plain was still and quiet but for the hum of the ever-blowing wind. Nothing moved in the empty expanse, and for all the hours of their ride, the mountains seemed no closer. The stark beauty Jefferson had found in the land was only cruel and harsh as fear closed about his heart like an icy fist.
Had Marta made a mistake? Was this not the rendezvous? Or had something gone wrong? Menendez?
“Marissa.” A shudder shook Jefferson’s lean, hard frame. Her name was a strangled whisper caught in the wind. And not even the blaze of the sun could warm him.
Then the bulky figure of a man was rising from an overgrown outcrop of stone where there should be none. He did not wear the celebrated ballooning pants of the gaucho. But his shaggy, dark hair just visible beneath his flat brimmed hat, his handsome features and demeanor left little doubt that he was one of the renowned horsemen of the Argentine pampas.
He carried no weapons but the tools of his work. Yet Jefferson didn’t question that he was a man who would protect what was his, or that his name was Juan. A shattered breath later, Marissa stepped from the curtain of scraggly vegetation that rimmed the stones, and out of Juan Elia’s shadow.
“I’m here, Jefferson.”