Page 15 of Seal of Honor
The fake policeman was doing push-ups in the center of the room while the man with the cane walked around him like a predator zeroing in on its weakened prey.
“Arms straight!” He tapped the man’s buckling arm with the tip of his cane. “You want to start over? We’ve got no place to be until Harvard finds that video footage.”
Okay. Definitely Americans. She let out the breath caught in her lungs. Yes, being American didn’t automatically preclude them from bad guy status, she knew that. Plenty of bad Americans out there in the world, but her instincts told her these men meant her no harm. Maybe they were even here to help. Maybe they were FBI or…
Not. She studied the group of men—soldiers, apparently, although most of them weren’t dressed like it—standing around the perimeter of the room. One of them, wearing a trucker cap with a surf logo and sipping a cup of coffee, took bets from the others. Definitely not FBI. Or anything else official.
Mercenaries, then?
Audrey bit her lip and took two steps backward into the bedroom… But then what? She stopped moving, glanced back at the bed. She hadn’t come to Colombia to lie in some tiny room and cower with the sheets pulled over her head.
She studied the group again and decided to go with her instincts. They hadn’t locked her in the room. If they had wanted to harm her, they had plenty of opportunity to do so when she was unconscious. So who were they and what did they want from her? The only way to find out was to talk to them.
The fake policeman finally collapsed, sweating and gasping, and even though he’d chased her and scared the hell out of her, she couldn’t help the twinge of pity as he rolled to his side and gripped his ribs, his face bright red, his teeth clenched. The other soldiers let out hoots until the man with the cane sent them all a look as lethal as a gunshot wound.
“Would you gentlemen like to join him?”
That shut them up, and they all faked interest in something else real fast.
To Audrey’s surprise, the man with the cane’s whole demeanor changed from brutal drill sergeant to—well, she didn’t know, but he was nearly gentle as he gripped the fake policeman’s hand and hauled him upright. “You okay, Jean-Luc?”
“Hah, that’s all y’all got? Piece of—” The man—Jean-Luc, apparently—winced. “Piece of cake.” Blood leaked from his nose, over his lips, and he swiped at it with his arm. “But, uh, I’ll listen to orders next time. Save you the… the humiliation of not breaking me.”
“Good idea.” The man with the cane smiled—and, whew, that was some smile, softening the hard lines of his cut-granite face. He patted Jean-Luc on the back. “Go see Jesse. You’re bleeding again.”
Jean-Luc tried to walk on his own but stumbled a little and slammed a hand onto the nearest piece of furniture, a table filled with electronic equipment, to steady himself. The man with the cane caught him under one arm while another man, who looked more like a soldier than everyone else with his military haircut and urban camouflage pants, wedged a shoulder under his other arm.
“Dizzy,” Jean-Luc muttered. He suddenly didn’t look good at all, pale as bone despite his tanned complexion.
Audrey had a feeling he hadn’t elaborated about their scuffle in Bryson’s apartment. He probably had a concussion from her hitting him with the lamp.
“I hit him on the head.” When seven sets of eyes turned her way, she realized she’d spoken aloud, and her heart took up residence in her throat. Some of the gazes were mildly hostile, others assessing, and still others showing a spark of male interest, but one particular set of hazels focused on her like sunbeams. Not as gold in the artificial light of the overhead lamp as they had been in the gloomy natural light of the alleyway but more greenish-gold, they swept over her, lingering a second longer than was necessary considering the situation. Then he seemed to catch himself and ripped his gaze away, again focusing on Jean-Luc.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked in that smooth, calm baritone.
Jean-Luc blew a raspberry with his lips. “Aw, it was nothing. Glancing blow.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Audrey told the man with the cane. “I hit him three times with a lamp. He really scared me.” But since they hadn’t tied her up and none of them had yet to attack her or threaten her in any way, she was beginning to think that had been a fluke. Maybe these guys were at least partly on her side.
“Pardon,” Jean-Luc said and looked genuinely apologetic through the blood leaking down his face. He collapsed into a chair someone had pulled up, and a man wearing a Stetson—a medic, she assumed, since he carried a bag of medical supplies—pressed a compress to his nose, then flashed a penlight in his eyes. He tried to wave the medic aside, but the medic wasn’t having any of that.
“Either you let me do an exam, J.L., or I knock you out. Then I’ll know for sure you have a concussion.”
He grumbled but let the medic take his vitals without further fuss and refocused on Audrey. “Things got a little out of hand back there at the apartment, cher. For that, I am sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She felt the man with the cane’s eyes on her again but pretended not to notice. “I apologize for hitting you. And, uh, kicking you in the nose.”
“Jesus, Jean-Luc,” the man in the trucker cap laughed. “She beat the shit outta you.”
“Hey, Marcus, got a gift for ya.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jean-Luc said and flashed him the middle finger, which made Marcus hoot with laughter.
“That’s enough, gentlemen.” The man with the cane, again catching himself staring at her, snapped to attention. She watched it happen, saw him yank on the reins of tightly held control.
How often did he let go of those reins? Not nearly enough, she guessed, and she had the inexplicable urge to force his hand.
