Shunned (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 3) Page 2

  He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

  “Why would I?” She nodded to his cuffs. “Are you in some way connected to the drugs that are destroying this country? Are police coming for you?”

  “How well do you know the woman who runs this place?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Camilla Rodriguez. Do you know her?”

  “Of course, we’ve met. The señora is one of the kindest, gentlest souls I’ve ever known. All of this”—she gestured to their surroundings—“wouldn’t be possible without her generosity. She’s a living saint. Why?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. What are you trying to say? Obviously, you’re a criminal, so—”

  “You’re wrong. I’m one of the good guys. Look . . .” As if checking to ensure no one overheard, he peered around her, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m taking a helluva risk in revealing this to you, but your Saint Camilla? She kidnapped my best friend’s baby. She was married to one of Colombia’s most notorious drug lords.”

  “You’re a liar. Señora Rodriguez is one of the most devout women I’ve ever known. She would never associate herself with the thugs and killers who make their living from selling death in white powder form. Why are you saying these awful things? What did you do that’s so horrible you had to be handcuffed to a hospital bed?”

  “I tried to take back my friends’ baby. That’s it. I’m now being held hostage.” She lurched backward when he gave a hard jolt to his restraints. The metallic clang echoed through the rock-walled room.

  “Liar!” Chin raised, she said, “You are a—”

  “Mary Margaret!” Sister Agnes stepped up behind her. “I’m not sure what I just walked in on, and I probably don’t care to know. Please go help Sister Catherine prepare the evening meal.”

  “Yes, Sister.” Mary Margaret bowed her head in shame. She had always had a short fuse. It was one of the main sins she whispered to Father Carlos during her confessions. But if there had ever been a reason to be upset with someone, surely, Everett Black’s harsh words had been it.

  Señora Rodriguez was a saint.

  Nothing Everett Black had to say could ever convince Mary Margaret otherwise.

  I was told you would be trouble.” The older nun looked like the knuckle-rapping, pinched-faced parochial school teacher from movies. “From now on, I will personally provide your care.”

  “Swell . . .” Needing to punch something in frustration, Everett gave an unsatisfying yank to his cuffs. The action only served to make his wrists hurt damn near as bad as his leg. “I need to use the restroom.”

  Her pale face reddened. Without a word, she took a bulky keychain from the white apron she wore over her black habit. She freed his left hand, then placed a metal bedpan atop his stomach.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m right-handed.”

  “Then I suggest you be careful with your aim.” She turned her back on him.

  Think, man. With only one hand free, how do I escape this bed?

  He eyed the rail that had already proven too solid to break or pull loose. It would be a waste of energy to mess anymore with that. The hairpins holding the current nun’s hat in place were also an option, but even if he managed to fling the bedpan at her head hard enough to knock her out, how would he get the pins? And how karmically uncool would it be to knock out a nun?

  She asked, “Need assistance?”

  “Privacy would be nice.”

  She headed for the door. “Call when you’re done.”

  Everett searched the room for an advantage he might have missed. Then he saw it—a wall-mounted used needle receptacle. The room was small enough that if he could somehow push himself over the fixed bedrail, then—

  “Finished?” The nun cracked open the door.

  “Ah, not quite.”

  She shut the door.

  Perfect . . .

  Pretending the bed was a gnarly rock face, he used his free arm to push himself up and over the rail. The cuff held his right wrist in a painful contortion he managed to work through. Gritting his teeth, sweat popping on his forehead from pain, he pushed past screaming discomfort to stretch toward the box. His hospital gown gaped open in the back, creating an awkward breeze on his ass and junk. He lunged so far that the antique bed lurched a good six inches, filling the room with the scrape of metal against rock floor.

  The door burst open, and the nun peeked through. She took one look at him and screamed, “Security! Help! Someone call for security!”

  Everett froze, but then, in the moment when the nun left him to bolt for the hall, he used the heel of his hand to pop open the plastic box’s lid, then reach inside. Pulse racing, he ignored the fact that he was fishing through a vat of used needles to take one before wincing and hobbling his way back to the bed, then vault himself over the rail. Pain radiated past his knee and into his thigh and calf. It actually came as a relief to sink against the cool sheets and pillows.

  By the time three, gun-toting security guards exploded into the room, Everett had not only managed to tug the sheet and thin blanket over his bare legs, but take a leak in the bedpan.

  “It’s about time you guys showed up.” He held out the pan. “Mind taking this?”

  A conversation erupted between them in Spanish that was too fast for Everett to make out even a few words.

  Four nuns were next to crowd into the cramped space.

  More indecipherable conversation erupted. There was much pointing and arguing.

  Everett wagged the pan, careful not to slosh. “Cerveza, por favor?”

  A middle-aged nun he hadn’t seen before stepped forward for the pan.

  “Muchas Gracius.” Everett had no beef with the ladies. They were only doing what they were told. What they thought was right.

  More arguing.

  Finger pointing.

  Two more guards entered. The tallest carried leg restraints.

  It was no surprise when Everett found himself surrounded.

  While one man tossed back the covers to search the bed, another cuffed Everett’s left hand. Two more thugs fastened his legs to the rails.

  Everett had expected no less.

  Once they’d gotten him good and buckled down, the security team patted themselves on their respective backs for a job well done.

  Meanwhile, Everett fingered the needle he’d jammed into the mattress and felt pretty damned good about his own day’s work. Now that he had a tool to pick his cuffs, he could essentially leave whenever he wanted. But not without Baby Joe.

  An image of the feisty young nun flashed before his mind’s eye. What were the odds of converting her to his team?

  Low.

  But maybe not impossible . . .

  Sister Mary Margaret stood at the endless center island in the convent’s kitchen, plucking the ends from green beans. The job was tedious, thankless, and hot. The kitchen wasn’t air-conditioned like the hospital.

  She could count on half of one hand the number of times she’d heard Sister Agnes raise her voice and today had been one of them. Mary Margaret hadn’t meant to argue with her patient, but those things he’d been saying about Señora Rodriguez were not only outrageous, but completely unfounded. Somebody had to defend her honor. As for her having kidnapped a baby… The claim was preposterous, and only further proved Mary Margaret’s earlier assumption that the man was somehow involved with cocaine. Clearly, he must currently be on it.

  “What did you do this time to end up under my watchful eye?” Sister Catherine was as round as a berry and her flushed cheeks nearly as red. Twice Mary Margaret’s age, Catherine was in charge of all meals for the convent and hospital. She oversaw a staff of twelve local men and women, as well as five other nuns. While everything she prepared was delicious, her pastries, cakes, and pies made her as popular as her gentle spirit and easy smile.

  Mary Margaret sighed. “It’s silly—my own stupid fault. I lost
my temper again, only this time, with a patient.”

  “Uh oh . . .” Sister Catherine rolled out a pie crust on a white marble slab.

  “He said horrible things about Señora Rodriguez. I couldn’t just stand by and let him sully her good name.”

  Sister Catherine made no comment. Since she was typically a chatterbox, Mary Margaret found this odd.

  “You think I shouldn’t have said anything?”

  “It’s not that . . .” The hesitation in her voice compounded the already awkward situation. “Did you know I voted on the matter of whether or not you were ready to take your formal vows?”

  “Yes . . .” Mary Margaret narrowed her gaze. “Sister Agnes told me the decision to deny my request was unanimous.”

  “It was.” Catherine rolled the crust in a perfect layer, then clipped it to fit a clear glass pie plate. “You know why I think you’re not quite ready?”

  Mary Margaret shook her head.

  “You still see your life through rose-colored glasses. You haven’t yet lived long enough to see the world as it truly is. Yes, Señora Rodriguez has done marvelous things for our order and mission, but there are far more layers to her than her charitable work. I fear for you—that once you see that great beauty can often be shadowed by even greater ugliness—you may never fully understand how to discover a balance between the two.”

  “My parents were murdered. You think I don’t know how ugly life can be?”

  “Shh . . .” Sister Catherine placed her comforting hand on Mary Margaret’s. “Of course, that was an unspeakably tragic time. All I’m saying is for you to arm yourself against naiveté. Even blessings have a price.”

  Mary Margaret frowned. “Sister, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “And I’m not getting these pies baked by standing around chatting.”

  “But—” Sister Catherine’s message made no sense. What was she trying to say?

  Why did Everett Black’s accusations about Señora Rodriguez have to come on the same day as her latest denial? And now, this cryptic speech? Was God sending her a message? If she were able to make sense of it, might it lead to her finally becoming a full nun?

  She’d opened her mouth to ask Sister Catherine this very thing when a commotion near the kitchen’s entrance caught her attention.

  Camilla Rodriguez, dressed in a white linen pantsuit that made her look cool and lovely despite the heat, chatted with two locally hired women who were chopping green peppers for the evening meal. There was nothing remarkable about that fact. What was remarkable? In her arms, she carried a fussy baby—judging by his blue gingham romper—a boy baby.

  A coincidence? Or could this be the infant Everett Black had accused her of taking? Pulse racing uncomfortably fast, Mary Margaret abandoned her green bean snapping station to dash off toward the convent’s small orphanage. If the infant was a new arrival, Sister Josephine, who handled the stacks of government paperwork for each child, would know.

  And if she didn’t?

  If Everett Black had told the truth?

  Mary Margaret’s stomach churned. If the infant had actually been kidnapped, and if he was actually being held against his will and was not a criminal, then she would go straight to Sister Agnes and make sure she contacted the proper authorities to release him.

  . . . Arm yourself against naiveté.

  Sister Catherine’s warning rose above the noise of her pounding heart.

  In the years Mary Margaret had lived at the convent and worked in the hospital and orphanage, Señora Rodriguez had fully funded both programs—even buying lavish toys, clothes, and entertainment. Tutors in not only primary education, but music and art. The hospital treated villagers from miles away. There was even a new minor surgery wing. How was all of this possible? Where had the money come from to pay for it all?

  The more fear and doubt and disillusion swirled in Mary Margaret’s confused heart, the more vivid her mind’s eye image of Everett Black grew. The urgency with which he’d delivered his message. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed his life depended upon her.

  But if that were actually true, how far was she prepared to go to help?

  4

  Jacksonville, Florida

  “HOW IS SHE?”

  Nash Adamson looked up from the same magazine article he’d been reading for an hour to find his longtime friends and business associates, Harding and Briggs enter Maisey’s cramped Jacksonville Memorial Hospital’s ICU room. Up until now, the only noise had been the steady rise and fall of the breathing machine keeping his wife alive. “Still unconscious. Any word from Everett?”

  “Negative.” Harding stepped closer, planting his hand on Nash’s back. “She’s gonna pull through. Believe.”

  Tears stung Nash’s eyes. “I’m trying, man. I’m trying.”

  Under normal circumstances, Nash was used to being in control. Now? The fate of his wife was in God’s hands. As he’d never been one to pray, the thought was unnerving. As for his son?

  Briggs had leaned against the far wall. “If Everett hasn’t called or popped up on satellite imaging by 0700 tomorrow, Jasper and I are going after him.”

  Nash nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No worries. We’re in this together and trust me, Vicente’s black widow is getting crushed.”

  Nash closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them. When the nightmare of saving Maisey and Baby Joe from drug lord Vicente Rodriguez had ended, Nash never saw this scenario coming—of the man’s wife not only being hell bent on revenge, but taking back the son she felt was rightfully hers. Only from Nash’s point of view, he’d earned the right to help Maisey raise the infant. All Camilla Rodriguez had done was send a couple of hired guns to handle her business. Friends in the DEA said that with so many arrest warrants for her in the States, she’d taken the coward’s way out by not daring to show her face.

  The custody issue could have been handled a myriad of different ways. Civilized ways.

  Maisey had the biggest heart of any woman he’d ever known. Had Camilla asked for supervised visits with her late husband’s son, though Nash would have advised against it, Maisey no doubt would have agreed.

  Now, however, Nash had lost any interest in playing nice. If the widow wanted a battle, she’d gotten one. If Maisey hadn’t been in such serious condition, Nash would have long since gone after their son himself.

  “What’s the plan?” Nash asked.

  Harding said, “Nothing fancy. Your basic aerial insertion, then retracing Everett’s trail. With luck, they’ll find a local willing to talk. If they hear Everett and your kiddo have been hurt, Jasper and Briggs will have enough firepower to blow Camilla’s compound to kingdom come.”

  Lips pressed tight, Nash nodded.

  But honestly? If Maisey woke and discovered so much as one hair on their precious son’s head had been harmed, he wouldn’t put it past her to hop the next flight to Columbia to take care of business herself.

  Mary Margaret left the cheery, yellow-walled orphanage and frowned.

  Not even the jubilant shrieks and laughter riding the light breeze from the playground could lighten her suddenly dark mood.

  Sister Josephine confirmed her worst fear—that the baby Señora Rodriguez held wasn’t an orphan, but her son. She claimed he was her late husband’s biological child who had been born from a surrogate mother. According to Josephine, Camilla had never been able to conceive, which was why she and Vicente had turned to surrogacy. Mary Margaret understood that. What confused her was that according to Everett Black, Camilla had kidnapped the infant. But from what Josephine said, the baby was legally hers.

  Mary Margaret’s head throbbed. None of this made sense.

  She had to personally speak to Señora Rodriguez. It was the only move that made sense. The woman had been her savior for over a decade. Mary Margaret at least owed her the courtesy of a conversation before alerting Sister Agnes, and maybe even calling authorities.

&n
bsp; Chances were, this was all a misunderstanding.

  Mary Margaret dashed from the orphanage to the covered brick walkway leading to the convent’s living quarters and kitchen. If she was lucky, Señora Rodriguez would still be there.

  Though rushing was discouraged because of its undignified nature, Mary Margaret plowed past gardening and maintenance crews. The late-afternoon air tasted thick on the back of her throat. Heat and humidity made her wool robe and wimple cling in what Sister Agnes would call an indelicate nature.

  “There you are,” Sister Catherine said once Mary Margaret huffed and puffed her way back into the kitchen. Two oversized ceiling fans only swirled the hot air. “Where did you run off to in such a hurry?”

  “S-Señora Rodriguez? Is she still here?”

  “No. She asked me about making special fruit and vegetable purees for her son, then left for the main house.”

  Only just now catching her breath, Mary Margaret nodded. “Thank you.”

  Sister Catherine narrowed her gaze. “What are you up to? Why are you flushed? If Sister Agnes caught you in this state, she’d send you straight to bed.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” To prove it, she was already running for the rear exit.

  “Mary Margaret!” Sister Catherine bellowed. “Get back here! You never finished the beans!”

  Ignoring her superior, Mary Margaret ducked back outside, this time to race toward the castle-like structure she normally only visited for holidays, birthdays, and other special occasions.

  Her dash across the impeccably manicured lawn startled three peacocks into a noisy display. She’d almost reached the front entry’s heavy wood door when a two-man security team stepped out from behind a corner.

  “Sister . . .” A man with pock-marked cheeks and a stinking cigar emerged from the stone entry’s deep shadows. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “I-I must see Señora Rodriguez. It’s a matter of quite some urgency.”

  “Is she expecting you?”