He leaned out from the wall’s cover and continued firing, picking out the enemy soldiers where they hid among the dense forest surrounding the Fortalesa. A flash of a pale face, the spark of a weapon’s firing. A shot from his or some other weapon, and the enemy gunman fell.
His arm cramped without warning, a sharp pain that shot from shoulder to elbow, causing his aim to drop. A sudden weakness had him sliding down the wall, while sweat poured down his face and soaked his shirt.
“Commander!” One of his men ran over in a defensive crouch and dropped to his knees. “Are you shot?”
Ferran shook his head. “A chip of stone from the wall, I think. Or maybe a near miss. I’m fine.” It was a lie, but a necessary one. He’d told no one about the recurrent pain in his arm, his chest. His people needed him strong, and so he would be. It was that simple.
“Sir, you’ve been up here for hours. You need to—”
“I need to stay with my fighters. The enemy forces can’t last much longer. They’ll need time to reach safety before sunset. Wherever the hell their safety lies.” The lack of knowledge about the attackers frustrated him. They seemed to melt into the forests like wraiths, which he knew wasn’t possible. The enemy was human enough, but Ferran lacked the fighters to both defend the Fortalesa and wander the countryside looking for their headquarters, their gathering point. And by the time the vampires woke, giving him freedom to search, there would be no trail for them to follow. That fact alone spoke to a high level of planning. If nothing else, the vamp trackers should have been able to follow the spilled blood from the wounded. But thus far, there’d been nothing, not a trace of trail to pursue. Which was very nearly impossible.
He swore softly, blaming himself for this conundrum. He’d let reconnaissance lag over the past several years, but it had been so long since they’d been attacked. Decades, really. Decades that had aged him beyond what he realized, made him complacent. And though he hadn’t yet lost any of his people, he knew he would if these attacks went on much longer.
He needed help before that happened. And not simply more bodies with guns. He needed someone with the intelligence and manpower to investigate and eliminate this threat. Someone to take over a job he was getting too old to perform. Someone to lead the good men and women who had looked to him for leadership all those years. Someone he could trust.
He knew exactly who that person was. The problem would be convincing her to come home.
Chapter Three
Near Bordeaux, France
LAYLA CASALES’S attention flicked from screen to screen as she reviewed video of the hostage exercise her team had just completed. Officially, it had been a success, with the hostage rescued unharmed and none of the bad guys escaping. But she wasn’t looking for the “official” outcome. She demanded better than “good” from her people, and usually got it. But not this time.
“You see that?” her lieutenant, Brian Hudson, asked, from where he stood next to her, watching the video just as intently.
“Yeah. Kerry checked the knob on that door, but didn’t open it. I wonder why. She knows better.”
“That’s why.” They both watched as Kerry swiveled to take down a bad guy who’d been about to ambush her partner from behind.
“Hmm. But she still should have gone back and checked the door. Too easy for her to become the next ambush victim.”
“I’ll mention it. Anything else?”
“They’re all a bit slower than I’d like,” Layla responded. It was nitpicking, but as Captain, she was responsible for every single life on this team. Some would call them mercenaries, but they were more than that. They were a tight band of skilled, disciplined warriors and friends, who chose their battles for reasons that had little to do with politics or greed. They just plain loved to fight, and when that fight occasionally helped the underdog climb to the top, that was icing on the cake.
Unfortunately, their current assignment was leaving dust on their weapons from disuse.
“It’s been too long since we’ve seen real action,” Brian commented. “Guarding the rich and beautiful from falling down the garden steps after they’ve drunk too much wine doesn’t exactly reinforce a battle- ready mindset.”
Layla nodded silently, then flicked the big display off as the exercise ended. “I know. I’m not sure what I can do about it, though. We can’t exactly hire out as mercenaries on the side. Our current contract with Clyde Wilkerson, who happens to love these vineyards, doesn’t permit it.”
Brian chuckled. “That’s the only reason why?”
“You know what I mean. We’re not allowed to work in any war zones—with a very broad definition of war zone.”
“Maybe you can persuade Wilkerson to give us a month off, no questions asked. I’m sure we could find a job hot enough to get the juices flowing.”
“Maybe. I’ll think on it. For now, go ahead and—” Her cell phone’s buzz interrupted them. She glanced at the display. “I have to take this. Release the boys and girls. The exercise was fine. I’ll have a private word with Kerry.”
“Yes, ma’am. See you in the barracks,” he said, though their sleeping accommodations hardly qualified as such. The entire team was housed in what Clyde Wilkerson called the “guest cottage,” a fucking ten bedroom house with a view of the vineyards beautiful enough to grace postcards. It was so big and comfortable that it almost compensated for the absence of action. Almost. Her people were all adrenaline junkies, and this assignment just wasn’t delivering the necessary rush.
Layla didn’t wait for Brian to leave before going back to her call. She didn’t care if he overheard. She had no secrets from him. Well, maybe one. But they were best friends, not lovers. Except for anything dealing with the private security firm they’d started together nearly ten years ago, there was no expectation of a midnight confessional. She tapped the screen on her cell phone.
“Mama?” She swung a chair around and straddled it backwards.
“Laylita, mija. You are well?”
She knew some people considered it odd, but she and her parents usually spoke English to each other. It had begun when Layla was only six years old—an exercise to help her learn the language, with the side benefit of refreshing her parents’ skills at the same time. The habit had only been reinforced when she’d gone off to America for college.
“Of course I’m well, Mama. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why would something be wrong?”