RIP REMAINED AWAKE, studying all the information they had on the case. He reviewed every photograph to glean as much insight as possible from the details in the images they’d obtained from Franks…everything from the faces to the crates of weapons.

      After the botched retrieval of the DEA agent by SBT-22, the terrorist camp had probably moved to another location, taking advantage of the jungle’s canopy for concealment from satellite photography. Finding them would be a challenge.

      Beside him, Tracie had leaned back in the contoured seat with her eyes closed, the steady rise and fall of her chest letting Rip know she’d fallen asleep.

      His attention shifted from the computer to the sleeping woman beside him.

      Her long, soft brown hair fanned out around her shoulders, and her dark brown lashes made shadowy crescents against her cheeks. Apparently, she was caught in a not-so-pleasant dream. She shivered again and whimpered.

      Her eyelids twitched, her eyes beneath them darting back and forth. Her fingers clenched the armrests and a tremor shook her body. Rip motioned to the flight attendant to bring a blanket. He took it from her and laid it across Tracie his hand finding hers.

      She let go of the armrest, fingers curling around his, squeezing so tightly she nearly cut off his circulation.

      “Tracie,” Rip whispered. “Wake up.”

      Her head turned from side to side and she whimpered again.

      “Tracie, wake up.” Rip made his entreaty more forceful. He didn’t like seeing her in such distress. What kind of dream was it to make her so upset?

      When she still didn’t wake, he leaned forward and captured her face between his palms. “Tracie, it’s okay. You’re just dreaming.”

      The CCI agent’s eyes blinked open, the startling green of them piercing Rip through the heart with the anguish reflected in them. She stared around at the interior of the plane. “What…where?” She shook her head and her gaze locked with Rip’s.

      He stroked his thumbs across her cheek. “Remember me? I’m your husband.” He winked and pressed a kiss to her forehead, liking the sound of the word on his lips. What would it be like to be Tracie’s husband? “You were having a bad dream.” He leaned back, letting go of her face.

      Tracie touched her fingers to the place he’d kissed and frowned. “Oh, it’s you.” Dragging in a shaky breath, she let it go slowly and sat up. “I’m sorry. For a moment I forgot where I was.”

      “I take it you weren’t in such a good place in your dream.” He tucked the blanket in around her sides.

      Sitting up, Tracie adjusted her seat to an upright position and pulled the blanket up to her chin, her body trembling. “It was only a dream. How long have we been flying?”

      “Two and a half hours.”

      “That long?” She pushed her hair back from her face and slipped an elastic band around the thick hank, securing it in a ponytail at her nape. “I must have needed the sleep. What about you? Did you rest?”

      “I can rest when we solve this case, and I can return to the land of the living.”

      Tracie’s lips twisted. “I know this must be difficult for you to play dead and alive at the same time. Hopefully, we’ll get in, get out and the terrorists will be none the wiser.”

      Rip snorted. “That’s what we planned when we went in to get Greer out.” He glanced out the window into the clear blue sky. “That’s not quite how it worked.” Gosling’s wife had been devastated when she’d gotten the news of his death. She’d almost lost the baby.

      Tracie laid her hand on his arm. “We’ll do the best we can. You should get some rest.”

      He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “What were you dreaming about when I woke you?”

      A long moment of silence stretched between them.

      Rip opened one eye.

      Tracie stared straight ahead, her face pale and drawn. Finally, she spoke. “I was dreaming about Mexico.”

      Closing his eye again, he allowed his lips to quirk upward in a wry grin. “I take it you weren’t dreaming about a vacation to Cozumel?”

      “Not hardly.”

      Rip opened his eyes.

      Tracie had turned her head away and stared out the window. Her back stiff.

      “Dreaming about being held hostage by members of a drug cartel?”

      She nodded.

      Rip slid his hand over hers and gently squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

      Tracie turned to stare at where their hands touched. “It happens.”

      “Yeah, but it’s not something you get over that easy. I’d bet you have PTSD.”

      She shrugged. “What do you do? Give up?” She shook her head. “Not my style.” Her hand slipped from beneath his.

      Rip’s grip tightened before she got away. “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

      “Thanks, but I did enough talking to the FBI shrink.” She tugged again and he let go of her hand. “I want to get on with my life, not dwell in the past.”

      “I get it.”

      “Perhaps we should look at the weapons Hank sent for our use,” Tracie suggested.

      The flight attendant cleared her throat. “Mr. Derringer also provided additional clothing, if you’d like to change.” She opened a small closet with an arrangement of clothing hung on hangers that included several nice dresses in light colors typical of warm climates, a man’s light gray suit and a white linen suit next to it.

      “Oh,