The Mercenary's Kiss. Pam Crooks
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of War for the United States.”
Jeb exchanged a grim glance with Creed.
“We need your help,” Kingston said.
“I’m not interested.”
The officer’s lips thinned. “You don’t know what I’m asking.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”
“Mr. Carson.” Desperation threaded through the words, and Jeb recognized the officer’s restraint to keep from showing it. “Perhaps this will convince you of the seriousness of my request.”
Jeb didn’t bother to look at the paper Kingston slid toward him. “How did you find me?”
The officer met his hard expression squarely. “We’ve made a point of keeping track of you.” His glance touched on Creed before returning to Jeb. “Both of you.”
“I’ve been out of the country for—”
“—five years and eleven months.”
“Where exactly have I been, Lieutenant Colonel?” he asked softly.
“South America. Madrid. Havana. Manila. Puerto Rico. Santiago. In that order.”
A slow fury simmered inside him. Suspicions surfaced. “How could you have known I’d be here at this saloon? Tonight?”
“We have sentries out watching for you at the border towns. We knew you’d arrived in Mexico on—”
Jeb’s arm snaked out and he grabbed the man’s shirt hard, yanking him half out of his seat. “My father sent you, didn’t he?”
A sheen of perspiration formed on the officer’s upper lip. For the first time, his gaze wavered. But only for a moment. “I told you. I received my orders to contact you from Mr. Alger.”
“Bullshit.” Disgusted, Jeb shoved him away.
Kingston righted himself in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is, er, possible that General Carson would be aware of—” he drew in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with the information he was about to impart “—of Mr. Alger’s intent.”
Jeb glared at him. “Tell the General he can go to hell.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that, sir.”
“And don’t call me ‘sir!’” Jeb snapped.
He downed the rest of the whiskey in one savage gulp, then raked a harsh glance around the crowded saloon. Where was that damn barmaid? He caught her eye, gestured for another drink. She nodded and winked. Jeb ignored her.
“The document looks legitimate,” Creed said, his low voice penetrating the storm raging inside Jeb. Creed slid the paper closer.
Because Creed wanted him to, Jeb looked at it. He recognized the presidential seal in the letterhead, the signature scrawled at the bottom.
“It’s a copy,” Jeb snarled. “Could be forged.”
“Maybe not,” Creed said, and looked at the lieutenant colonel. “And then again, maybe it is.”
Kingston shook his head emphatically. “President McKinley wrote the letter to the Secretary, Mr. Carson, but it’s about you. Mr. Alger has the original. For obvious reasons, of course. He didn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands.”
The barmaid appeared, and the conversation halted. Jeb snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and refilled his glass himself.
“And whose hands might that be?” he demanded after she left.
“Mexican rebels.”
Jeb breathed an oath. He didn’t want to know. Or feel.
“There have been reports of revolutionary activities against the government of President Porfirio Díaz,” Kingston said quickly before Jeb could stop him. “The people are angry at his tyranny. The government is getting rich off them. Díaz is taking their land, and they’ve found hope in a young upstart named Emiliano Zapata.”
“Zapata.” Jeb recognized the name of the man who was fast acquiring a reputation as a fierce fighter.
“Yes. But the United States has refused to support him, and to retaliate, Zapata’s men have been robbing Americans on both sides of the border to fund their activities. One man in particular has shown himself to be unusually dangerous. His name is Ramon de la Vega.”
“So?” But the name branded itself into Jeb’s memory.
“We’ve cut off the flow of arms into Mexico, and he and his rebels aren’t happy with us. Last week, they stopped a train just outside of Eagle Pass northwest of here, robbed it and killed a dozen people. The month before, they raided a small village and killed another twenty.”
Jeb’s fingers tightened around the glass. “How do I fit into all this?”
“President McKinley fears a major revolution is forthcoming if Zapata and de la Vega are not stopped.”
“And?”
“And we feel that, with your expertise—”
“Find someone else.”
“There’s none other. I mean, you’re highly recommended, sir.”
Jeb snorted. Again he thought of his father. “I’ll bet.”
“By Colonel Theodore Roosevelt. Among others.”
He stilled.
Roosevelt.
Jeb had ridden with the man and his troops during an attack on San Juan Hill in Santiago. It had been a privilege to be part of the initiative with them. But Jeb refused to be swayed by Roosevelt’s influence, even in a matter as serious as this one.
“There are thousands of American forces who can do a hell of a lot more effective job than I can,” he said. “Enlist them instead.”
“Mr. Carson.” Kingston slid another uneasy glance at Creed, as if imploring his help in convincing Jeb to his way of thinking. But Creed merely leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping the discussion on Jeb’s terms. “Let me be frank here. Your skills as a soldier—”
“I’m not a soldier in the truest sense of the word, am I, Lieutenant Colonel? My father saw to that years ago.”
“A mercenary, then.”
A cold smile curved Jeb’s lips. For the first time since Kingston had arrived, some of the tension eased. “That’s more like it.”
The officer withdrew a thick packet from inside his uniform. “Mr. Alger promises generous payment for your services and has instructed me to give you the first installment.”
Jeb snorted. “And what happens to the rest of the money if I end up dead?”
“We certainly hope that isn’t the case, sir.”
“Let me explain something to you.” Jeb took one last drag on the cigarette, exhaled slowly and crushed the ashes in a small bowl. “I’ve been gone a long time. In fact, Creed and I have been back only a couple of hours. As you know.” His mouth quirked. “I’ve spent nights in muddy trenches, sweated days in mosquito-infested jungles. I’ve been shot at, knifed, beaten to within an inch of my life. I’ve been taken prisoner, and I’ve escaped. All in the name of my country.”
Once, he thought nothing of leaving the United States behind. A foreign country—it didn’t matter which one—offered danger and adventure. An opportunity to slake the hurt and rebellion gnawing inside him.
Not anymore.
He’d come full circle. He had traveled the world, seen some things no man should see and done some things no man should do. He’d evolved into a man who made his own