Her Kind of Hero: The Last Mercenary. Diana Palmer

      “I’m sorry, Micah.”

      “It’s my fault,” Micah ground out furiously. “I shouldn’t have left her alone for a minute! I warned her, but what good did that do?”

      “Stop that,” Eb said at once. “You’re no good to Callie unless you can think straight. If you need any sort of help, logistical or otherwise, I have contacts of my own in Mexico.”

      “I’ll need ordinance,” Micah said at once. “Can you set it up with your man in Belize and arrange to have him meet us at that border café we used to use for a staging ground?”

      “I can. Tell me what you want.”

      Micah outlined the equipment he wanted, including an old DC-3 to get them into the Yucatán, from which his men would drop with parachutes at night.

      “You can fly in under the radar in that,” Eb cautioned, “but the DEA will assume you’re trying to bring in drugs if they spot you. It’ll be tricky.”

      “Damn!” Micah was remembering that someone in federal authority was on Lopez’s payroll. “I had a contact near Lopez, but he left the country. Rodrigo’s cousin might help, but he’d be risking his life after this latest tip he fed Rodrigo. So, basically, we’ve got nobody in Lopez’s organization. And if I use my regular contacts, I risk alerting the DEA. Who can I trust?”

      “I know someone,” Eb said after a minute. “I’ll take care of that. Phone me when you’re on the ground in Cancún and make sure you’ve got global positioning equipment with you.”

      “Will do. Thanks, Eb.”

      “What are friends for? I’ll be in touch. Good luck.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Want me to call Cy?”

      “No. I’ll go by his place on my way out of town and catch him up.” He hung up.

      He didn’t want to leave Callie’s car with the door open and her purse in it, but he didn’t want to be accused of tampering with evidence later. He compromised by locking it and closing the door. The police would find it eventually, because they patrolled this way. They’d take it from there, but he didn’t want anyone in authority to know he was going after Callie. Someone had warned Lopez about the recent devastating DEA raid on his property. That person was still around, and Micah didn’t want anyone to guess that he knew about Callie’s kidnapping.

      It was hard to think clearly, but he had to. He knew that Callie had a cell phone. He didn’t know if she had it with her. Kemp, her boss, had let that slip to Eb Scott during a casual conversation. If Callie had the phone, and Lopez’s people didn’t know, she might be able to get a call out. He didn’t flatter himself that she’d call him. But she might try to call the adult day care center, if she could. It wasn’t much, but it gave him hope.

      He drove to the center. For one mad instant he thought about speaking to his father in person. But that would only complicate matters and upset the old man; they hadn’t spoken in years. He couldn’t risk causing his father to have another stroke or a second heart attack by telling him that Callie had been kidnapped.

      He went to the office of the nursing director of the center instead and took her into his confidence. She agreed with him that it might be best if they kept the news from his father, and they formulated a cover story that was convincing. It was easy enough for him to arrange for a nurse to go home with his father to Callie’s apartment every night and to drive him to the center each day. They decided to tell Jack Steele that one of Callie’s elderly aunts had been hurt in a car wreck and she had to go to Houston to see about her. Callie had no elderly aunts, but Jack wouldn’t know that. It would placate him and keep him from worrying. Then Micah would have to arrange for someone to protect him from any attempts by Lopez on his life.

      He went back to his motel and spent the rest of the night and part of the next day making international phone calls. He knew that Chet Blake, the police chief, would call in the FBI once Callie’s disappearance was noted, and that wasn’t a bad idea. They would, of course, try to notify Micah, but they wouldn’t be able to find him. That meant that Lopez’s man in law enforcement would think Micah didn’t know that his stepsister had been kidnapped. And that would work to his benefit.

      But if Lopez’s men carried Callie down to the Yucatán, near Cancún, which was where the drug lord lived these days, it was going to become a nightmare of diplomacy for any U. S. agency that tried to get her out of his clutches, despite international law enforcement cooperation. Micah didn’t have that problem. He had Bojo, one of his best mercenaries, with him in the States. It took time to track down the rest of his team, but by dawn he’d managed it and arranged to meet them in Belize that night. He hated waiting that long, and he worried about what Callie was going to endure in the meantime. But any sort of assault took planning, especially on a fortress like Lopez’s home. To approach it by sea was impossible. Lopez had several fast boats and guards patrolling the sea wall night and day. It would have to be a land-based attack, which was where the DC-3 came in. The trusty old planes were practically indestructible.

      He couldn’t get Callie’s ordeal out of his mind. He’d kept tabs on her for years without her knowledge. She’d dated one out-of-town auditor and a young deputy sheriff, but nothing came of either relationship. She seemed to balk at close contact with men. That was disturbing to him, because he’d made some nasty allegations about her morals being as loose as her mother’s after she’d come on to him under the mistletoe four years ago.

      He didn’t think words would be damaging, but perhaps they were. Callie had a reputation locally for being as pure as fresh snow. In a small town, where everybody knew everything about their neighbors, you couldn’t hide a scandal. That made him feel even more guilty, because Callie had been sweet and uninhibited until he’d gone to work on her. It was a shame that he’d taken out his rage on her, when it was her mother who’d caused all the problems in his family. Callie’s innocence was going to cost her dearly, in Lopez’s grasp. Micah groaned aloud as he began to imagine what might happen to her now. And it would be his fault.

      He packed his suitcase and checked out of the motel. On the way to the airport, he went by Cy Parks’s place, to tell him what was going on. Eb was doing enough already; Micah hated the thought of putting more on him. Besides, Cy would have been miffed if he was left out of this. He had his own reasons for wanting Lopez brought down. The vengeful drug lord had endangered the life of Cy’s bride, Lisa, and the taciturn rancher wouldn’t rest easy until Lopez got what was coming to him. He sympathized with Micah about Callie’s kidnapping and Jack Steele’s danger. To Micah’s relief, he also volunteered to have one of his men, a former law enforcement officer, keep a covert eye on his father, just in case. That relieved Micah’s troubled mind. He drove to the airport, left the rented Porsche in the parking lot with the attendant, and boarded the plane to Belize. Then he went to work.

      Callie came to in a limousine. She was trussed up like a calf in a bulldogging competition, wrists and ankles bound, and a gag in her mouth. The three men who’d kidnapped her were conversing.

      They weren’t speaking Spanish. She heard at least one Arabic word that she understood. At once, she knew that they were Manuel Lopez’s men, and that Micah had told the truth about the danger she and Jack were in. It was too late now, though. She’d been careless and she’d been snatched.

      She lowered her eyelids when one of the men glanced toward her, pretending to still be groggy, hoping for a chance to escape. Bound as she was, that seemed impossible. She shifted a little, noticing with comfort the feel of the tiny cell phone she’d slipped into her slacks’ pocket before leaving the office. If they didn’t frisk her, she might get a call out. She remembered what she’d heard about Lopez, and her blood ran cold.

      She couldn’t drag her wrists out of the bonds. They felt like ropes, not handcuffs. Her arm was sore—she wondered if perhaps they’d given her a shot, a sedative of some sort. She must have been out a very long time. It had been late afternoon when she’d been kidnapped. Now it was almost dawn. She wished she