When the villagers delivered her up to Jorge, he gave her a look that was equal parts relief and anger.

“Puta,” he growled, his hands balled into fists. “What the hell do you think you’re doing causing so much trouble? You’re going to be sorry.”

She braced herself for a blow, but none came. Maybe he didn’t want to have to explain how the prisoner had gotten injured. Pivoting away, he honked the horn several times in rapid succession.

When he turned back to her, his anger was under better control. Methodically he began to search her, his hands lingering on her body in a way that made her want to throw up. When he found her knife and the other tools, he gave her a thunderous look.

“This will make the general very angry.”

She raised her chin. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell him your prisoner got away, would you?”

“Why not?” The question was from Jose, who had come around the van to stand behind her.

“Because he won’t be angry only at me. He’s going to wonder why you were careless enough to let a woman in a leg iron slip out of your hands.”

The two men exchanged a quick, whispered conversation. At least Marissa had the satisfaction of knowing she’d rattled them badly. And maybe her ploy would keep them from talking about the morning’s misadventure.

Jorge cuffed her wrists behind her back before he shoved her into the van. The vehicle lurched away in a cloud of exhaust that enveloped the villagers who were standing several yards away watching the spectacle.

* * *

AS JED pressed his foot down on the old Land Rover’s accelerator he was thinking about the two best features of the road to El Jefe’s finca. There were no potholes. And there weren’t any cops on motorcycles who were going to stop him for speeding. Which was a damn good thing, because he was driving as if the devil was in pursuit.

He slowed marginally as he approached a village, alert for cows with a death wish. But at this time of day they were all lazing in the shade while the egrets picked the bugs from their hides.

As soon as he’d cleared the populated area, Jed accelerated again. He’d shown up at Sanchez’s offices in Santa Isabella that morning pretending that he wanted to get together with his old buddy, since they hadn’t connected at the party the other night. He’d been told that the general was at his country estate.

Determining the whereabouts of the female prisoner being held incommunicado had been a little trickier. But he’d been lucky enough to run into one of the men he’d trained six years ago. The fellow had made lieutenant, and he attributed much of his military success to Jed’s guidance.

As they talked about old times and present duties, Jed asked if the general was loading them up with special assignments. He found out that two guards had taken a good-looking blond woman out to the hacienda the previous morning.

With his heart pounding, he’d gotten out of the conversation as quickly as possible. Five minutes later he had hit the road to Sanchez’s estate, trying like hell not to think about what he might find. But he couldn’t stop some pretty vivid pictures from jumping into his mind. He’d once walked into a session when El Jefe had been demonstrating interrogation techniques on prisoners captured from the revolutionary army.

As he sped west the sky turned to navy blue, and the wind began to blow. A tropical storm was rolling in. He hoped it held off until after he arrived at the finca, or the driving rain might slow him to a crawl.

Two miles from the main gate he was stopped at a checkpoint. Again he was damn lucky. It still wasn’t raining, and another of his old comrades was on duty. He was passed through on the assumption that Sanchez knew about the visit. He hoped he didn’t get the guard in too much trouble.

If things were the same as they’d been six years ago, an electrified fence and another guard station were ahead. Jed’s hands tightened on the wheel. Even if they were best buddies, it was doubtful that the sentry up ahead would allow him to pass without authorization from El Jefe.

But what if the general was interrogating his prisoner? If he was busy with Marissa, he’d probably left strict orders not to be disturbed because he wouldn’t want to break the rhythm of the session.

A sick feeling rose in Jed’s throat. Too bad this Land Rover wasn’t armor plated so he could steamroll the guardhouse and hope that Sanchez would come out to investigate the disturbance.

As it turned out, the sentry’s attention wasn’t focused on the road but on the nearby field that El Jefe used for disciplinary action. The trees at the edge of the parade ground bent and swayed. The wind tore at the shirts and trousers of soldiers in the field marching in formation as if preparing for a formal drill. Not likely in a gale condition. No, this was no practice session. He recognized the configuration. It was a firing squad.