Shunned (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 3) Page 4

  “True.” Mary Margaret forced a smile. Do I look as guilty as I feel? “Thank you for your prayer. I’ll, ah, be up as soon as I get a glass of water.”

  “Of course.” Sister Agnes bowed her head, then thankfully exited up the stairs.

  Just in case she returned, Mary Margaret did go to the kitchen, but rather than drinking water, she indulged in several long pulls from the corked, sweet red wine usually reserved for feasting days.

  Wind and driving rain rattled the windows.

  Thunder shook the stone walls, making them feel no longer solid, but as precarious as her future.

  The room’s only light was the dim fixture above the sink. It flickered, then went out.

  In this remote region, power outages were common. The generators would soon kick on.

  Mary Margaret held her breath—waiting for the familiar chug of powerful diesel engines banishing the dark of night. But when there was no sound other than thunder and wind-driven rain, her panic rose to new heights. Maybe the storm was a good thing? Maybe the chaos would provide just the cover she needed to take the infant without being discovered?

  Deciding God might be on her side, she gulped the kitchen’s hot, sticky air, then took off running. Ignoring the rain, the way the moisture soaked her wool habit, weighting her every step, she ran until her lungs felt near bursting, then pushed still harder.

  She approached Señora’s mansion by the rear service entry. Many times she had used the security code needed to open the door. She punched in the familiar numbers, but the green light remained unlit. In fact, the entire panel was dark.

  She tugged the usually locked door. It swung open.

  She released the breath she’d been holding, then crept into the dark service area. Washable rubber mats protected the stone and her footfalls. She assumed the infant would be in the north wing, near Señora’s personal suite.

  Mary Margaret’s worst fear was that the baby would stay in the same room as his temporary mother. If this fear proved true, she was unsure of what to do. For now, her only hope was to remain undetected for as long as possible by the guards whose low voices she heard in another room.

  They argued about who was in charge of the generator.

  As far as Mary Margaret was concerned, it could stay off.

  She’d been to the mansion enough that lightning flashes guided her up the back stairs to the second floor. On the landing, her pounding heart told her to beware of guards, but curiously, there were none.

  This is too easy, her ragged breaths said with each step.

  The mansion’s second floor hall seemed endless. The décor was much the same as the lower hall, only creepy family portraits had been replaced by equally gloomy oil landscapes—some in ornate, gilded frames as large as refrigerators.

  Her wet skirts dragged atop the priceless antique rugs. Her sodden wimple and veil made her feel off balance and awkward. She would have loved to rip it off, but couldn’t. It was inevitable that she would encounter guards, which meant maintaining her usual outer appearance.

  She began searching room after room, but there was no sign of the baby.

  The closer she came to the double doors leading to Señora’s suite, the more Mary Margaret fought panic. What was she doing? How would she ever pull this off?

  With still no guard present, she held her breath while turning one of the crystal knobs.

  The door soundlessly swung open.

  Lightning illuminated a terrifying scene. Not only was the infant in the room, but held in Señora’s arms. While he softly whimpered, Señora sang a Spanish lullaby.

  A trio of antique silver candelabras had been lit. They each held twelve white candles that lent the room an eerie, flickering glow.

  Aborting the mission, Mary Margaret took a backward step. It proved a catastrophic mistake. She’d forgotten that the mansion’s upper floors were wood. When she’d stepped, the floor creaked, giving away her presence.

  “Who’s there?” Señora swung to face her. Gaze narrowed, she asked, “Mary Margaret. Why are you out in this storm?”

  6

  Jacksonville, Florida

  “NURSE! HELP! MY wife, she . . .” Nash’s words trailed off while a team of nurses ran from their station to Maisey’s intensive care room.

  He’d been on his laptop, trying to catch up on business by her bedside, when all hell had broken loose. Buzzing and beeps erupted from her many monitors and she’d arched her back, clawing at her face, desperate for her next breath.

  For as long as he lived, he’d never forget her terror-filled expression.

  Even worse, his own feelings of helplessness. Regret.

  If only he’d entered their dark home before her. If only he’d been fast enough to catch the men who’d taken their son. If only he’d had the foresight to have had Vicente Rodriguez’s widow checked out before any of this had even gone down.

  Leaning against the wall outside of Maisey’s room, Nash pressed the heels of his hands hard against his forehead.

  If Maisey died . . .

  If Camilla Rodriguez harmed their son . . .

  If Everett had fallen victim to her goon squad . . .

  What? What the hell was he going to do from here? He balled his hands into fists. Never had Nash felt more helpless. More at the mercy of his friends to right impossible wrongs.

  At first, one nurse left Maisey’s room, then another and another, all giving him pitying glances.

  One blond RN who Harding was always chatting up patted Nash’s shoulder. What was her name? Olivia? “Deep breaths. Your wife is a fighter. Turns out she just had a kink in one of her hoses. If I have anything to say about it, she’s going to be fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Can I go back in?”

  “Of course.” She turned toward the nurses’ station. “Let me grab a refill for her IV solution, and I’ll be back in to bug both of you.”

  “Sounds good.” Nash’s chest hadn’t felt this tight with terror since—well, it was around about the same time he and Maisey had rediscovered each other. They’d had Rodriquez’s men chasing them down and had been surrounded by snakes and gators and muggy air filled with more mosquitoes than oxygen. If they’d somehow managed to make it through all of that, then they’d damn well survive this latest assault.

  But what happens if Maisey doesn’t pull through? What happens if your baby never comes home?

  Tears stinging his eyes, Nash clutched Maisey’s hand. “Live. Please, my love, just live.

  7

  Piapoco, Colombia

  “AW, HELL . . .” EVERETT had known this escape plan was going too good to last.

  Through the van’s rain-soaked windshield, he spied a cluster of guards.

  Lightning revealed seven of them—each carrying enough firepower to take out a small village.

  Though the drum of rain on the van’s roof prevented him from hearing what they were saying, their animated gestures didn’t take much translation. Either they’d discovered he was missing or that the nun had taken the baby. Maybe both.

  Regardless, time to enact Plan B.

  Everett wasn’t yet sure what that was, but it sure as hell didn’t entail sitting here like some stooge, waiting to be made. His own personal angel had gone to a lot of trouble to save him, and he’d do his damnedest to save her right back.

  He took the keys from the ignition, pocketed them, then inched open the door, wincing when it creaked. Even under the storm’s ferocious cover, every sound could expose him. For whatever nefarious reason, Camilla Rodriguez had kept him alive this long, but in the future, she might not be so generous.

  The foot attached to his bum knee was first to hit the ground. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but fought through the pain. He’d been in worse jams. This was nothing.

  He hobbled from the van to an open-sided shed that not only provided shelter from the rain pelting his face, but offered a variety of gardening tools he could us
e for both a cane and weapon. The stale air inside smelled of grass clippings and mower fuel.

  Opting for a pitchfork, he gripped the smooth wooden handle, using its strength to get him from one side of the long, shallow structure to the other.

  This new vantage afforded him a full-range view of the backs of the convent and mansion. When his angel emerged with Baby Joe, he’d provide cover.

  And if she didn’t—emerge?

  He grimaced through a nauseating wave of pain. Failure had never been an option before, and he sure as hell didn’t plan on making it one now.

  Cloaked in protective shadows, he watched the guards divide into teams of two, then spread out, presumably to search the estate for him.

  The one lone guard strode toward the van to which Everett held the keys. If the guy had been well-trained, by shining his halogen flashlight through the windows, he’d find the seat partially wet—a telltale sign someone had recently opened the door. From there, Everett’s boots had left deep imprints in the rich tropical soil. Yes, the rain would steadily wash prints away, but not fast enough. Plus, the lightning and thunder had lessened, meaning, as with most tropical storms, the downpour would be short-lived.

  Pulse steady, leaning against the shed’s weathered wood wall, Everett regulated his breathing while waiting to see if the guard was any good. Unfortunately, he was. All too soon, the lanky figure used his flashlight to trace Everett’s path.

  Everett leaned deeper into the shadows, waiting for the guard’s approach.

  His boots crunched across the shed’s dry gravel floor.

  The original plan had been to stab him with the pitchfork, but on second thought, not only would it be messy and take a lot of effort to ram the spikes through the guard’s protective armor, if Everett missed, that gave the guy ample opportunity to call friends.

  With the rain now a sprinkle, any sound would carry. Everett couldn’t take the chance.

  Searching his surroundings, he found shelves filled with clay pots and fertilizer. Spades and insecticides. The one useable item was a box of trash bags. He grabbed it, found it nearly full, and smiled.

  After silently withdrawing a black plastic bag, he opened it, then waited . . .

  And waited . . .

  And when the poor bastard stepped within reach, Everett used the element of surprise to his advantage. Lunging from the shadows, he ballooned the bag over the man’s head, drew it tight around his neck, then held it in place until the man lost the will and air to struggle.

  With the guard’s body still twitching, Everett dropped him, stripped him of his weapons, then squinted into the inky night.

  The storm had passed, leaving the air eerily still. The guards’ animated voices carried from all corners of the estate.

  Angel, where are you? What’s taking so long?

  Everett was debating whether or not to launch a search for her when shots rang out.

  A woman screamed. His angel?

  His nice, chill heart rate? Gone.

  The storm returned full force, only this time, hammering in his chest. He barely knew the woman, but if something had happened to her . . .

  “Mary Margaret,” the señora repeated. “Why are you out in this storm?”

  “I, um,” her tongue refused to work. Think. Say anything. “When the generators failed to come on, I was worried about you and your sweet baby. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Of course. Although it was kind of you to think of me. Look at you. Even in this dim light, I can see you are soaked.” Having never seen the proud woman without her makeup and tailored clothes, it came as a shock to Mary Margaret to find her looking not only older than usual, but defeated. “Let me put down the baby and get you a towel.”

  “T-that’s not necessary,” Mary Margaret said. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”

  “Hush. It’s no trouble at all. Actually, you’d be doing me a favor. As you can hear, my cariño still isn’t feeling his best. I’ve been walking with him for hours and would love a hot soak. Would you mind watching him? Promise, I won’t be long.”

  Feeling as if angels had orchestrated the entire event, Mary Margaret nodded. “Of course. Please. Take all the time you need.”

  “Bless you. But first, I’ll get your towel.” She placed the baby in a canopy-covered crib, then took one of the candelabras with her to what Mary Margaret knew from past glimpses to be a marble palace of a bathroom.

  A knock sounded on the outer door.

  “Señora?” called a muffled male voice.

  “Mary Margaret, would you be so kind as to see what Fernando wants?”

  “Of course.” She made the sign of the cross. Just when her mission to take the baby had seemed doable, with the appearance of the chief of Señora’s security detail, now her task once again seemed impossible. Her wet habit made each step torture. The wool rubbed her skin raw.

  Or maybe that was her guilty conscience?

  She was on the verge of breaking a woman’s heart. Even though this act was justified, it didn’t come without an emotional price.

  Mary Margaret had known the señora since she’d been a child. She hated this terrible informational burden Everett Black had placed upon her. Even worse, she hated the shame of only just now realizing the señora was no saint, but a monster. Sister Agnes was right to have denied Mary Margaret’s final vows. She was not worthy. But then how were any of them? The entire convent had operated for decades under what were essentially layers of lies upon lies.

  Terror froze her limbs. Pinned her feet to the floor.

  “Señora, please.” Fernando knocked again. “I must speak with you.”

  Mary Margaret pressed her hands over her runaway heart, then glanced over her shoulder to ensure the señora had already entered the bathroom. She had. The sound of running water carried past the closed door.

  Shoulders straight, more determined than ever to see this mission successfully through, Mary Margaret adopted Mother Superior’s haughty pose, then marched to face the head of Señora’s security. “It is late,” she said upon jerking open the door. “The señora is exhausted from caring for her baby. Mother and child finally find a moment of peace and you have the audacity to disturb them?”

  “Sister.” The man bowed his head. “I did not know you were here.”

  “Of course, I am here. Señora needed my help. Now, tell me your business and as soon as she is well enough to hear, I shall relay your news.”

  He peered past her. Presumably to check if all was right within the lavish suite? He carried a large gun, and had another holstered on his hip. The image of that afternoon’s dead man flashed in her mind’s eye.

  “Well?” Mary Margaret feared her knees buckling from terror, yet rage notched her chin higher. Could this be the very man who had pulled the trigger on her parents?

  “Tell Señora our . . . guest, has escaped. We are searching for him now, and feel confident he can’t have gone far.”

  “Very well. I will deliver your message. Although I am certain she will not be pleased.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed. “Are you sure the señora’s okay? Should I sweep her room?”

  “While she’s indisposed?” Mary Margaret feigned shock. “I should think not. Now, go, before you wake her baby.”

  “Yes.” As if confused by Mary Margaret’s transformation from scared mouse to confident eagle, the man stroked his thick black mustache. He unclipped a small, handheld radio from his belt, and handed it to her. “If you or the señora see our guest, please let me know. I am afraid he will once again try taking her son.”

  “Of course.” She bowed her head. “I will guard the infant with my very life.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” The exchange ended as abruptly as it had begun. Fernando retreated into the mansion’s gloom, and once his heavy footfalls echoed down the marble stairs, she dared breathe.

  Before she had time to think of any one of the hundreds of ways taking the señora’s baby could go wrong, she forced hersel
f to envision the infant’s reunion with his true mother.

  She cautiously approached the crib, her hands hovering just shy of the infant’s tiny form when the bathroom door lurched open.

  Mary Margaret jolted back.

  “Is he okay?” Señora asked.

  “Of course. You startled me.” Was this it? The moment when she was caught and killed like that mystery man downstairs? Like her parents? Her heart beat to an alarming degree.

  Señora handed Mary Margaret a thick white towel, then leaned over the side of the crib, running her hand along the fitfully sleeping infant’s backside. “Thank you again for your help. I won’t be long.”

  As quietly as she’d appeared, the señora left.

  Knowing she must take the baby now or never, Mary Margaret tossed the towel over her habit’s still soaked shoulder, then scooped the infant from his crib. “You’ll be home soon,” she promised.

  Spying a diaper bag on the floor near a changing table, she crammed it full of as many supplies as it would hold, then ran.

  The sudden action resulted in a burst of tears—not just from the infant, but Mary Margaret. Knowing if she was to have a chance at a clean escape, neither the señora or guards must hear. She ducked into one of a half-dozen guest rooms, took a throw blanket from the foot of a bed, then tossed it over her wailing charge.

  With his cries at least muffled, she dashed down the darkened hall, praying the lights stayed off long enough for her to reach the van where Everett waited.

  She reached the back staircase, painstakingly finding her way in the suffocating black. At any moment, Fernando or one of his thugs could find her, dragging her back to the señora for the sort of punishment she was too scared to even imagine.

  Every step felt like descending a mountain. Each exhalation, as if she were releasing a part of herself. This place, these people, were part of her, yet none of them were as they’d seemed. When she’d had nowhere else to go, she’d believed and trusted each and every one of them, but it had all been a lie. And for what? Glorification and money?