Show No Fear - By Marliss Melton Page 0,44

searching look.

“I do, thank you,” said Gus, patting him on the back.

His touch, like the other nonverbal cues, was a CIA tactic, employed to foster trust. Both he and Lucy had been trained to utilize such techniques. David, hopefully, didn’t realize that. But given the grave expression on his face, he wasn’t going to be the prime informant Gus had hoped he might be.

CHAPTER 10

The marvelous tea made from the bark of the Achoi tree didn’t just reduce the welts on Gus’s neck and head; it put him into a deep, peaceful slumber.

Lucy, fated to play his loving wife, sat cross-legged at the edge of their mat under the protection of the mosquito netting, watching over him. As shadows lengthened in their cubby, thoughts flowed through her mind like the endless rush of water at the salto.

Gus’s insinuation that she fueled her efforts on survivor’s guilt had left her simmering with resentment. What she felt about the bombing that had killed her friends wasn’t guilt. It was anger.

She could still picture the perpetrator, a bearded stranger who had caught her eye as he walked against the tide of pedestrians marching along Calle de los Caballeros in a festival parade. With a wild glance back at the car parked along the narrow street, he’d groped under his jacket. Instinct alone had alerted Lucy to his intentions, only she’d had no time to warn her friends, who were seated with her at the outdoor café.

In the next instant, the force of the blast had ejected them from their seats. The wrought-iron table had slammed into Lucy, shielding her from the bomb’s blast, then pinned her beneath it as they crashed to the ground together. By the time she’d regained consciousness and crawled out from under the table, the quaint artsy district called Barrio del Carmen had been filled with smoke and blood and dismembered bodies.

Of the four exchange students studying at Don Quijote Language School, she was the only one to escape alive, not a mark on her.

Wasn’t that reason enough to be riddled with survivor’s guilt?

Tears stabbed the backs of Lucy’s eyes as she glared down at Gus’s dozing countenance. She wished he were awake so she could hiss at him, Damn you. I don’t take unnecessary risks!

Only that would make her a liar, wouldn’t it?

If she was being honest with herself, the high-speed chase in Morocco two years before had been unnecessary. She could’ve just turned into an alleyway and waited quietly for her pursuers to roar by, only she’d wanted them to chase her and to die trying. She hadn’t even considered that she might get hurt herself. And ten months ago, she could have boarded the rescue helicopter at the embassy in Caracas, Venezuela, like all the other staffers, and gotten the hell out of there. But she hadn’t. And Gus had to be sent in to extract her.

Hell, it wasn’t that much of a long shot to deduce she had a death wish.

Maybe Gus wasn’t so far off the mark with his assertion.

But the incident at the warehouse in Maiquetía must have been the turning point. The lieutenant who’d brutalized and nearly raped her had put her in touch with her fear. She had gone from one extreme to another, her recklessness replaced by reluctance, confidence ousted by cowardliness.

Unacceptable. She needed to get her professional edge back. She had to. Because once this assignment was over and she and Gus parted ways, she would have no one to bolster her courage, no one to look out for her.

Lucy swallowed hard. She didn’t want to think about that day. Not because she’d miss Gus. She’d done fine these past years without him. She’d do fine again. But what if she never shook her PTSD? What if it remained with her forever? She’d be a wash-up, taking some quiet assignment that did nothing to promote the security of her country.

God forbid. She’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than live forever as a sputtering flame.

A woman’s tearful supplication jerked Lucy from a light sleep.

“Easy,” whispered Gus. The effects of the herbal tea must have worn off. He sounded fully awake, his body tense and coiled for action as he peeked through an opening he’d made in the leafy wall.

“What’s going on?” she asked drowsily, shivering at the draft he’d created by moving.

A wedge of golden light danced on his brow ridge, illumining his alert gaze. “Buitre’s got three of the women tied together,” he whispered. “It looks