Hush by Cherry Adair

did not look happy as she shot fulminating glares at them. “I will deal with you later,” she snapped in low Spanish, clearly pissed about something. “Morales. Goito. López. Asegure los presos .”
    She was okay about broadcasting their names.
    Zak counted heads, weapons, and attitudes. The odds of breaking free of this lot were slim to none; bound, their odds plummeted. Shit. Where was Barbie? Still in the van?
    He and his brother had their wrists bound with plastic restraints in front of them. Amateurs. Pros would’ve made sure their hands were secured behind them. It was almost a reassuring thought. The sheer size of this operation was grounds for concern, amateur or not. At least a dozen men milled about the vehicle. Nobody was going anywhere. He and Gid shared a quick speaking glance before the woman indicated they should clasp their bound hands on top of their heads. They both did so.
    She had sharp, ferretlike features and soulless black eyes, and a crew cut of greasy black hair. Up close and personal, she stank just as bad as her men.
    She cradled the H & K as if it were as light as a handbag over her arm as she addressed him. “¿Hablas español?”
    Zak gave her a blank look.
    â€œYou come to my country,” the guerrilla leader said scathingly, taking a menacing step forward so her combat boots were inches from his knees. “You Americans! So arrogant. So— American. You come to my country, and you cannot be bothered to learn my language?”
    â€œA distinct oversight, under the circumstances,” Zak agreed. Beside him, Gid’s breathing sounded labored. He was hurt. How badly? Zak wondered, knowing this fiesta was just getting started.

THREE
    Z ak surreptitiously took in their surroundings. Small clearing. A patch of low underbrush surrounded on three sides by massive trees, vines, and thick vegetation. No road to get to wherever the hell they were. Behind the tires of the van, nothing more than flattened undergrowth. In days, if not hours, the jungle would take even that back, and there’d be no sign that humans had ever been there.
    Piñero snapped her fingers. One of the men came up beside her, handing her two American passports. One-handed, she flipped each open, fanning them so their photographs were exposed. She didn’t even glance down, but maintained eye contact with Zak. “Zakary and Gideon Stark. ¿Sí?”
    Something told him she’d known who they were already.
    â€œWe’ll pay to ensure our safe return to a city or town close by. No questions asked,” Gideon said, using the deep, calm, rational voice that usually pissed Zak off. Today, he could have kissed him. “Take us to a bank and we’ll—”
    â€œYour ransom is twenty million. Each.”
    â€œFine,” Zak interjected sharply, concerned by Gideon’s labored breathing and the gray tinge to his skin. Had his older brother suffered internal injuries when they’d captured him? Had Gideon been stabbed by one of those KA-BAR blades and the son of a bitch was too stubborn to tell him in case the knowledge skewed Zak’s focus? Because, yeah, that’d do it.
    Maybe throwing money at this problem would make it go away. Maybe. “Whatever it takes,” Zak added. Under normal circumstances—whatever the hell those were—Zak wouldn’t sweeten the pot. Not yet. A good player knew when to reveal what was in his wallet without adding that he had shitloads of money shoved in his jockstrap too. But this was now about Gid’s and the woman’s survival, and that trumped anything else.
    â€œZak,” Gid warned quietly, but Piñero’s thin lips tightened into a grim little smile as she said swiftly, “Cash. American dollars.”
    Yeah. They’d known exactly whom they’d kidnapped. “Fine. Obviously we don’t carry that kind of cash on us,” Zak told her. “We came to BASE-jump