to Fred. "Why wasn’t I told?"
"He hasn’t been back long. I’d have heard. You would have been told."
"I’m looking for an answer, not an excuse." Abruptly she pushed herself erect and moved toward the kitchen.
"There’s nothing you can do tonight but get some rest," Fred said quietly, barring her way.
Acasia moved past him. "I can plan. I can strategize."
"You can pace. You can dwell," Fred said, interpreting her words.
Acasia picked up the shotgun. "Same difference," she said, and let the screen door slam behind her.
She stood still for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. I shouldn’t have come, she thought. Why did I come? Cam would be safer with someone else. Anyone else.
I didn’t want to trust him with anyone else, she acknowledged silently.
Guiltily she eyed the end of the clinic that housed the room, the bed, where Cameron waited. Whatever he might feel, however frustrating she might find it, she couldn’t go to him. Already her emotional involvement with him had placed him in jeopardy. And not only him, but Fred, as well. She couldn’t afford to let it go farther. Emotions created too much confusion, scattered her focus, clouded her instincts. Emotions could kill.
Her boots scraped lightly on the floor. Outside the village, the night was dense, the pale moon covered by clouds. In the forest, night creatures stalked unwary prey and caught it. Acasia tried not to listen too hard to the night.
Uneasily she prowled the veranda, the gun slung loosely in the crook of her arm, carried as solid evidence of reality, a hedge against something that wouldn’t happen until well after first light. She knew she should rest. She would need all her energy when Dominic Mansour came back. And he would. When Sanchez purchased men, he purchased their principles, too. Dom would give him his money’s worth.
Acasia stopped pacing and stared into the night. Cam was only in danger from Sanchez and Dominic Mansour as long as he remained in Zaragoza. Or, given that Dom no doubt had a score to settle with her, as long as she remained with him. I never should have come, she thought again, as though second–guessing herself might make a difference.
Don’t be silly, she told herself. Dom’s not a fanatic, only a professional soldier in need of a war.
Think again, sweetheart, a little voice whispered. He thinks you tried to kill him—or barring that, that you left him for dead.
A vivid memory of an explosion blinded her thoughts momentarily. It had been nearly seven years since an odd job she’d picked up for the State Department had first introduced her to the former French intelligence agent named Dominic Mansour, four since he’d led Sanchez’s special squads routing the families of Zaragoza’s rebel leaders out of hiding, killing some and imprisoning others, establishing himself in the role of Sanchez’s trusted right hand. And it had been nearly three since she’d led him into the Zaragozan National Liberation Front trap she’d thought had killed him.
Sweat streaked down her face, soaking her collar. Past sins had a habit of haunting one at the most inopportune times. Life meted out consequences in its own sweet time and left no room for mistakes en route. Acasia only wished she could figure out why all her mistakes had chosen to catch up with her at once.
Why didn’t you stay dead, you bastard?
A jaguar snarled in the night, and she jerked alert, snapped off the gun’s safety and raised it in one reflexive motion. Nothing, it was nothing, only nerves. Trembling, she snapped the safety back in place and dropped into a padded wicker chair by the door, the shotgun across her knees.
Exhaustion moved in as her tension seeped away. The humid air stirred sleepily through her hair, and she leaned her head on the back of the chair, eyes drooping closed. For a minute she would rest; for a moment she would let herself relax….
* * *
Troubled dreams caught her on the edge of sleep,
"He hasn’t been back long. I’d have heard. You would have been told."
"I’m looking for an answer, not an excuse." Abruptly she pushed herself erect and moved toward the kitchen.
"There’s nothing you can do tonight but get some rest," Fred said quietly, barring her way.
Acasia moved past him. "I can plan. I can strategize."
"You can pace. You can dwell," Fred said, interpreting her words.
Acasia picked up the shotgun. "Same difference," she said, and let the screen door slam behind her.
She stood still for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. I shouldn’t have come, she thought. Why did I come? Cam would be safer with someone else. Anyone else.
I didn’t want to trust him with anyone else, she acknowledged silently.
Guiltily she eyed the end of the clinic that housed the room, the bed, where Cameron waited. Whatever he might feel, however frustrating she might find it, she couldn’t go to him. Already her emotional involvement with him had placed him in jeopardy. And not only him, but Fred, as well. She couldn’t afford to let it go farther. Emotions created too much confusion, scattered her focus, clouded her instincts. Emotions could kill.
Her boots scraped lightly on the floor. Outside the village, the night was dense, the pale moon covered by clouds. In the forest, night creatures stalked unwary prey and caught it. Acasia tried not to listen too hard to the night.
Uneasily she prowled the veranda, the gun slung loosely in the crook of her arm, carried as solid evidence of reality, a hedge against something that wouldn’t happen until well after first light. She knew she should rest. She would need all her energy when Dominic Mansour came back. And he would. When Sanchez purchased men, he purchased their principles, too. Dom would give him his money’s worth.
Acasia stopped pacing and stared into the night. Cam was only in danger from Sanchez and Dominic Mansour as long as he remained in Zaragoza. Or, given that Dom no doubt had a score to settle with her, as long as she remained with him. I never should have come, she thought again, as though second–guessing herself might make a difference.
Don’t be silly, she told herself. Dom’s not a fanatic, only a professional soldier in need of a war.
Think again, sweetheart, a little voice whispered. He thinks you tried to kill him—or barring that, that you left him for dead.
A vivid memory of an explosion blinded her thoughts momentarily. It had been nearly seven years since an odd job she’d picked up for the State Department had first introduced her to the former French intelligence agent named Dominic Mansour, four since he’d led Sanchez’s special squads routing the families of Zaragoza’s rebel leaders out of hiding, killing some and imprisoning others, establishing himself in the role of Sanchez’s trusted right hand. And it had been nearly three since she’d led him into the Zaragozan National Liberation Front trap she’d thought had killed him.
Sweat streaked down her face, soaking her collar. Past sins had a habit of haunting one at the most inopportune times. Life meted out consequences in its own sweet time and left no room for mistakes en route. Acasia only wished she could figure out why all her mistakes had chosen to catch up with her at once.
Why didn’t you stay dead, you bastard?
A jaguar snarled in the night, and she jerked alert, snapped off the gun’s safety and raised it in one reflexive motion. Nothing, it was nothing, only nerves. Trembling, she snapped the safety back in place and dropped into a padded wicker chair by the door, the shotgun across her knees.
Exhaustion moved in as her tension seeped away. The humid air stirred sleepily through her hair, and she leaned her head on the back of the chair, eyes drooping closed. For a minute she would rest; for a moment she would let herself relax….
* * *
Troubled dreams caught her on the edge of sleep,
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