Seduced by His Target. Gail Barrett

to meet her eyes. “I am sorry. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

      “Sure. That’s why you kidnapped me.”

      His strong jaw flexed. “I’ve got a job to do. It’s not something I can talk about. But I don’t wish you any harm.”

      “Then let us go.”

      “I can’t.” Regret tinged his voice—and damned if he didn’t sound sincere.

      She lowered her gaze to her stew, but her appetite had deserted her. And suddenly, she was so tired, so incredibly confused. Who was this man? Why was he bothering to be nice to her? He’d protected her from Amir, risking his life on her behalf. But he’d also captured her and was planning Henry’s death. So which was the real man—the kidnapper or the protector? Did he care, or was he playing some kind of twisted mind game to amuse himself?

      She closed her eyes, too tired to figure it out. And for the first time, despair spiraled through her, the terrible dread that she might not survive.

      No. She refused to think that way. She’d been in dangerous situations before, and she’d always made it out alive. But what if she didn’t this time? What if she couldn’t save Henry? What if that dear doctor died because of her?

      There had to be a way to escape. She had to put her mind to it and come up with a plan, no matter how impossible it seemed. She wasn’t going to let these people win.

      Forcing herself to think, she focused on the half a dozen farmers standing around the fire, drinking pisco and coca tea. These men made their living producing coca. They harvested the leaves and converted them to paste, which they sold in the nearest town. To make the paste they needed chemicals, gallons of it— kerosene, gasoline, ammonia—which wouldn’t be easy to transport on these mountain trails.

      Unless they had a truck...

      That thought gave her pause. She hadn’t seen any signs of a vehicle. She hadn’t even seen a proper road. But if they had one, they’d probably park it near the pit where they made the paste.

      Her hopes ticked up. She racked her brains, trying to remember what she’d heard about making paste. First they harvested the leaves and dried them. Then they put them in a pozo, or pit, and added water and kerosene. To avoid hauling water, they’d probably build the pit near a stream.

      And if she could find that pit, she could find whatever vehicle they used to transport the chemicals—hopefully, a car or truck.

      She stole a glance at Rasheed. He watched her with steady eyes, and her pulse increased its beat. She’d never fool him. He’d never let her out of his sight. Unless... She rose.

      “Where are you going?” he asked.

      She gestured toward the path behind the cooking fire. She’d seen enough villagers come and go while she’d been eating to figure out where it led. “The ditch—or whatever it is they use. Why? Do you want to come with me?”

      His gaze stayed on hers for a heartbeat. A long second later, he shook his head. “No, go ahead. But Nadine...don’t try anything rash.”

      Not bothering to answer, she returned her bowl to the bucket by the fire. Then she started down the moonlit path leading away from the huts, trying to act nonchalant. But she didn’t have much time. She had to locate the coca pit and hurry back before Rasheed grew suspicious and came to investigate.

      The stench told her when she’d reached the right place. But a sudden crackle in the underbrush caught her attention, bringing her to a stop. She held her breath and listened hard, scouring the darkness around the path. Nothing. Probably some nocturnal animal hunting for food.

      Still, in case one of the kidnappers was lurking nearby, she slipped behind the wooden screen and used the ditch. Then she took another, narrower path through the woods, following the sound of a rushing stream.

      Seconds later, she reached the creek. She washed her hands, the icy water a shock to her nerves. The stream itself wasn’t wide, maybe ten feet across, but it probably flowed straight from the snowcapped peaks. She rose and glanced around, not sure which way to go. But if she were dumping toxic chemicals into the river, she would choose a spot downstream.

      Clicking on Henry’s penlight, she headed along the bank. She picked her way through the bushes and rocks, tripping over branches and rotting logs. But several minutes later she stopped. There was still no sign of a pit. For all she knew it could be miles in the other direction. And she was running out of time. If she didn’t head back soon, Rasheed would divine her plan.

      Deciding to keep going to the next bend, she continued hiking downstream. The creek twisted and curved, and then she spotted another path, probably leading straight from the coca fields. Her excitement mounting, she picked up her pace. And then she saw it—the pit where they made the paste.

      It was literally a hole in the ground lined with a plastic tarp. They’d built a lean-to around it to protect it—a crude, wooden structure with a metal roof. Various supplies were piled outside—barrels containing chemicals, coils of plastic tubing, wooden poles to stir the paste. Hardly a high-tech operation, but it sufficed.

      She continued past the pit, and her heart made another leap. A pickup truck. So she’d been right! And there was the road—a rutted tractor trail disappearing into the woods. She could sneak out later with Henry and hightail it to the nearest town.

      Thrilled at her discovery, she hurried to the truck. It had a flat rear tire, rusty doors and barrels piled in the bed. But she didn’t care. As long as it ran, she would drive it on the rims.

      Assuming she could find the key.

      She shone the penlight through the window and looked inside. No key. Damn. One of the villagers must have it. But maybe Henry knew how to hot-wire an engine. She’d go straight to his hut and ask.

      But then a twig crackled behind her. Her heart lurching, she whirled around. More branches snapped, and panic jolted her into gear. Someone was following her. Scared now, she darted up the path leading through the coca fields.