The Redemption Of Jefferson Cade

Two

“What the hell is this about?”

If Jefferson expected an answer, the buffeting thunder of the helicopter would have made it incomprehensible. With it, the pilot who had introduced himself as Rick Cahill and a friend of Jericho Rivers’s, though courteous and efficient, was closemouthed. His eyes, cold steel, never wavered from the sky.

As he’d watched the helicopter fly fast and low through the canyon at dawn, Jefferson had known it was in the hands of an expert. When the monstrous machine touched down as gently as a dragonfly, he suspected the pilot could fly anything, anywhere.

“With his eyes closed.” The growled assessment drew the pilot’s attention. A riveting gaze turned. A lifted brow as black as shorn, curling hair, was the only variant in a calm expression.

Leaving his silence unbroken, Jefferson answered the question in those keen eyes with a shrug and looked away. But not before he wondered again at the strange turn of events.

Within hours of opening Marissa’s cryptic message, his ordered life had spiraled into quiet chaos. Plans made, airline reservations secured, the ranch bedded down for the night, he’d been packing a duffel when the telephone rang. Alarmed, he’d answered abruptly. The caller’s voice was familiar, stunned recognition came with Billy Blackhawk’s official preamble and statement of the purpose of his call. Though the sheriff of Silverton was far from a stranger, Jefferson would have questioned the message he’d relayed, were it not for his mention of Jericho.

Even then, he’d found it difficult to forego questions. But on the strength of Jericho’s name and Billy Blackhawk’s reputation, he had. Billy’s promise that everything would be explained when he arrived at an undisclosed destination didn’t ease his wariness. An astute judgment warned that questioning Rick Cahill would be useless. Preserving the silence between them, Jefferson stared out the window. That the helicopter was capable of astonishing speeds was evident. As they flew toward the sun and deeper into the day, one color of the earth segued into another in the blink of an eye.

When the chopper landed on an isolated airfield, Jefferson assumed it was to refuel. Instead, Cahill tossed the duffel to the tarmac, signaled his passenger should follow, and climbed from the cockpit.

In a ground-eating jog, Cahill approached the hangar. With a scarred hand, he signaled Jefferson to wait while he entered a small door and disappeared inside. Sooner than anticipated, the hangar doors rumbled open, and Cahill stepped out, a grin turning the steel of his eyes to smoke. “We made it.”

“Made what?” Jefferson asked as he joined Cahill.

“This destination, undisturbed. Which we hope means no one traced the letter to you or the Broken Spur.”

“Undisturbed.” Blue eyes narrowed. “By whom? Why?”

Cahill’s grin faded. “The same people who shot Paulo Rei’s plane out of the sky. Why can be better answered when we reach our final destination.”

Shuddering in renewed horror, Jefferson kept silent.

“The crew will be back shortly. To return the chopper to its owner, now that its maintenance is finished.” Another grin ghosted over the pilot’s lips. “We should be gone before then.”

“In that.” Jefferson spoke of a small jet. “Which, I suppose, has been sent for maintenance that will never take place.”

“Actually, the jet is for sale. The prospective buyer has taken it for a test flight and evaluation.”

Jefferson nodded. “Too bad he isn’t going to buy.”

“Yeah.” Respect gleamed in Cahill’s eyes.

In the air, Rick Cahill was less guarded, but just as intent. While the jet streaked toward the east and a clandestine meeting, Jefferson thought of a plane the world assumed Marissa was aboard. And that Rick claimed had been blasted from the sky.

Questions teemed in Jefferson’s mind. They went unvoiced. When the jet was traded for another helicopter, time zones had been crossed and daylight had burned away like a candle. But the terrain was green and mountainous now. He needed no answers to know this was the last of a convoluted journey.

Rick flew with the same skill and concentration, skimming through mountain passes as he followed the snaking path of a river. At a waterfall he banked and climbed, then dropped into a valley crisscrossed by creeks and a river filled by another waterfall. The tin roofs of two buildings gleamed in the sun. The helicopter hovered, then set down with an ease that recalled the canyon landing.

Jericho was there, flanked by Simon McKinzie whom Jefferson had met only once. Tall and massive, a lean Goliath whose mix of French and Native American heritage was evident in his chiseled features and gleaming black hair, the sheriff should have dwarfed the older man. But on the strength of that single meeting at Jericho’s wedding, Jefferson had discovered no one could overshadow the silver-haired, bull-shouldered McKinzie. A man who wore the mantle of honor and authority as naturally as most men wore their own skins.

Yancey Hamilton, once Belle Terre’s bad boy and now a man with mysterious and powerful associations—associations that prompted Jefferson’s call for his help—waited a little distance away. Ethan Garrett, except for Simon the most unexpected element in this mix of different and unique men, stood by Yancey. Yet, on second thought, Ethan—who was the brother of Jefferson’s own brother’s wife and a man given to protracted, unexplained absences—fit perfectly in this mix of competent, enigmatic men. Men, Jefferson knew in a glance, for whom danger was a way of life. And honor their reason for being.

“Quite a welcoming committee,” he observed. “Because of the Argentine connection?”

“Is that a question?” Rick asked.

“An observation, Rick.”

“That’s what I thought. You know everybody?”

Jefferson’s gaze returned to the impressive gathering. “Except for Mr. McKinzie, I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

Rick rose from his seat. “They’re still the men you knew, but you’re about to see another side of all of us. The side Simon McKinzie saw when he recruited us for The Black Watch.”

“Gentlemen.” Simon McKinzie addressed the men gathered in the office of his mountain retreat. A place where The Black Watch came only rarely. Even more rarely, civilians, as he considered those not a part of the clandestine government organization that he had formed by order of a past president, and had solely controlled in the many years since. “Summing up. According to his ongoing dossier, in aspiring to become the next drug czar of the world, Vicente Menendez was determined to buy certain connections in Argentina as an alternate route of distribution through virgin territory. He chose an older man, thinking he would be more vulnerable. But, Menendez didn’t reckon with the integrity and iron will of Paulo Rei. Nor was he prepared for a woman as spectacularly beautiful and accomplished as Rei’s wife.

“Señora Rei would be remembered by all of you as Merrie Alexandre. To all but Jefferson. To whom, I’m told, she has always been Marissa Claire, her true, given name. Then, there’s Rick, of course, who hasn’t met the charming lady. A condition we should rectify, hopefully and soon. Any questions, thus far?”

No one spoke and Simon continued. “Menendez assumed, for a price, not only would Rei’s honor be for sale, so would his young wife. We suspect that in underestimating his prey, Menendez revealed more of his operation than was prudent. Before he had understood Rei was a man whose honor was priceless, as was his wife’s loyalty. After the brief suspicion of a bomb, we have reason to believe that fearing exposure and infuriated by Señora Rei’s rejection, Menendez ordered their plane shot down over the sea.

“This was purely speculation based on the suspicions of an informant. Until Jefferson called Jericho, we had no reason to think Marissa Rei was alive. Even if we had, we wouldn’t have known where to look for her. Now we do. Because Jefferson recognized the need for secrecy, we just might succeed.”

“So, we’re going after her.” Playing devil’s advocate, Rick Cahill locked stares with Simon. “Why?”

“Because she’s an American citizen, born in America of an American mother. Because Menendez is also an American, one who destroys lives for profit. Because I want him.” A cold stare turned colder. “Does that answer the question?”

Without waiting for a response, Simon looked at his men. Each of whom possessed unique talents, unique abilities, and infinite loyalty. “So we go?”

“We go.” Rick spoke first. A surprise to no one, including Jefferson, who had learned many surprising things this day.

The land was rugged and breathtaking and vast. The sturdy horse he’d been provided was an excellent mount. The trail he rode was not difficult if ridden with concentration and caution. At his back, but beyond sight, lay the Alexandres’s Argentine estancia, an oasis in the heart of a plain. Ahead, the Patagonian Alps, a part of the continent-spanning Andes, sprawled like sleeping giants. That the woman who was his guide knew the land and its irregularities was immediately apparent. Jefferson’s only chore was to follow and keep Simon’s timetable.

So, ever cognizant of the hour, he followed and worried about what he would find at their destination. And what would happen to the good people who had helped Marissa when she and he, and Simon’s men of The Black Watch were gone.

Go with caution to the Alexandre estancia, to Marta Elia, wife of the foreman. Horses and a guide will be provided. The rest we leave to you.

The scant message that brought him here was a brand in his mind. One he would never forget. As he would never forget Marta Elia and her husband Juan. Marissa’s allies who offered secret sanctuary to a friend with no concern for the trouble they might bring down on themselves.

“If Menendez finds out…if he finds them…” Jefferson didn’t want to think of it. Instead he fixed his gaze on Marta’s back, and on little Alejandro, her three-year-old son, who clung like a limpet to her waist. When she’d ridden into the copse of stunted trees where she’d directed him to wait, he hadn’t expected she would be his guide, nor that she would bring the child.

At first, given the obvious need for both speed and secrecy, he was disturbed by the boy’s presence. But he needn’t have been. Alejandro had ridden for hours beneath the blazing sun and had never complained. As the terrain gave way to a series of small rocky hillocks to climb and descend, the trail required more attention. But not so much that Jefferson didn’t wonder how it would be to have such a son. Or perhaps a daughter.

He would have been startled at a thought so foreign to what he expected his life to be, if Marta hadn’t slowed her horse and announced quietly, “We are here, señor.”

The plain was still and quiet but for the hum of the ever-blowing wind. Nothing moved in the empty expanse, and for all the hours of their ride, the mountains seemed no closer. The stark beauty Jefferson had found in the land was only cruel and harsh as fear closed about his heart like an icy fist.

Had Marta made a mistake? Was this not the rendezvous? Or had something gone wrong? Menendez?

“Marissa.” A shudder shook Jefferson’s lean, hard frame. Her name was a strangled whisper caught in the wind. And not even the blaze of the sun could warm him.

Then the bulky figure of a man was rising from an overgrown outcrop of stone where there should be none. He did not wear the celebrated ballooning pants of the gaucho. But his shaggy, dark hair just visible beneath his flat brimmed hat, his handsome features and demeanor left little doubt that he was one of the renowned horsemen of the Argentine pampas.

He carried no weapons but the tools of his work. Yet Jefferson didn’t question that he was a man who would protect what was his, or that his name was Juan. A shattered breath later, Marissa stepped from the curtain of scraggly vegetation that rimmed the stones, and out of Juan Elia’s shadow.

“I’m here, Jefferson.” Her voice was music.

As he heard her, Jefferson’s labored breath caught in his lungs. His mouth went dry, even as his heart lurched in an uneven rhythm. A woman so different from the woman he remembered, but still so beautiful, waited beneath his startled stare.

Her long brown hair had been cut shorter. No scarf held the sleek, sophisticated mane in check as it brushed the line of her shoulders. Beneath the low-tipped brim of a hat similar to that of her companion’s, her face was angular and too thin, revealing bone structure that promised lasting beauty in happiness or grief, old or young. Her eyes were shadowed and veiled as she held his gaze.

On a glance he had seen that she was too slender, too worn by her ordeal. Trousers of dark leather clung to her long legs and brushed the toes of her boots, making a tall woman seem taller, a slender woman, more slender. A lighter vest hung open over a soft shirt and brushed the belt buckled at her waist.

Marissa, dressed as he’d seen her hundreds of times. As strong as he knew she would be. Resting an unsteady hand on the pommel of his saddle, vaguely aware that Marta, Juan, and even Alejandro watched him, and waited, he asked, “Are you all right?”

Her eyelids swept down, shielding her eyes from his. Her lashes brushed the line of her cheekbone. But neither they nor the shadow of her hat could hide the toll of tragedy.

Then, as a strong woman rediscovered her faltering stamina, her lashes swept up. As her dark gaze met his again, her somber lips tilted in a wavering smile. “I will be,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “Now that you’re here.”

Now that you’re here. The words he didn’t know he’d waited for, spoken in the voice of the cultured woman. But with the wistfulness of the girl he’d first loved.

In a fluid dismount, Jefferson was out of the saddle and on the ground and Marissa was in his arms. “You’re safe now, sweetheart,” he promised against her hair as her hat went spinning in the wind and the dust.

Burrowing deeper into his embrace, her forehead against his shoulder, Marissa breathed in the familiar scent of him and reveled in his gentle touch. The scent she’d never forgotten. The touch that filled her dreams. “I was afraid you might not care. That you wouldn’t come.”

Moving her away only a little, a knuckle beneath her chin lifted her face and her gaze to his. “I promised, Marissa. Remember? If ever you need me…”

“I’ll come for you,” she finished for him as he intended she should. “And now you have. I should never have doubted a promise made by such a special friend. No matter how long ago.” Her laugh was low, a trembling sound, and there were tears on her cheeks. “First Juan and Marta, and now you, Jefferson. Friends risking your lives for mine. It’s more than I deserve. You’re all so much more than I deserve.”

“No.” Jefferson gathered her back to him, to hide the tears he couldn’t bear to see. “Never more than that.”

As he held Marissa, Jefferson was aware that Juan and Marta had moved away. Stealing rare moments for themselves even as they were giving reunited friends time alone. But only a little time, for in the distance he heard the rhythmic throb of a helicopter. The percussions of the blades grew closer and louder each passing minute. Though he didn’t want to let her go, there were duties to attend. Decisions to be made.

Releasing Marissa, but taking her hand, he went with her to Juan and Marta as they stood by the mass of stones. It was then Jefferson realized that rather than random rubble, they were part of the ruins of a structure. A home once, perhaps. One, he suspected, that served again as shelter.

Shelter for Marissa in the weeks since the crash of Paulo Rei’s plane. But what shelter would there be for this small family? Who would be their allies? If danger threatened, how could those who would repay their kindness help? Jefferson knew the collective answer to his question. Simon and the men and women of The Black Watch would offer and insure sanctuary for the Elias as the Elias offered sanctuary to Marissa. So would Jefferson Cade.

Addressing Juan and Marta, he spoke into the escalating cacophony. “The men for whom we wait are coming. There will be room in the helicopter for both of you and your son. It won’t be safe here if it’s discovered Marissa wasn’t on the plane and that you helped her.

“If you come with us, Simon assures safe passage into our country. With that, I promise a home and work for Juan with my brothers in the southeast. Or, if he chooses, with me in the west. Above all, we pledge you will be safe.”

Juan had turned to face Jefferson and Marissa. With Alejandro in his arms, his eyes dwelt on the face of the young woman he had known all her life. “Marta and I understand the danger. We have from the first.”

“Then you know it’s impossible for you to stay.” Jefferson met a dark gaze that took his measure.

“Do you understand the danger if we go, Señor Cade?” Juan countered, as he put his son down to play.

“You’re afraid that if you and Marta and Alejandro disappear there will be an investigation. Possibly raising suspicions that could lead to speculations about me.” Marissa’s hand grew taut in Jefferson’s as she saw beyond grief and guilt to the magnitude of what her friends had risked to help her.

“Any investigation will bring outsiders to the estancia, querida. People who will question, perhaps too skillfully. And someone will remember you were here, helping Marta with Alejandro’s illness when it was thought you were on the plane. The time and place and circumstances will be investigated, and someone will realize the value of what he or she knows.” Leaving the rest of his warning unsaid, Juan drew a harsh breath.

“Menendez has already proven his influence and his power. Someone will talk. For money, or in pain. Then he will search for you.” The gaucho’s darkly weathered face was grim. “The rotten threads of his ugly empire reach far and wide. His thugs know how to make the most unwilling speak. Wherever you are he will find you. And if he cannot take you, he will kill you, Rissa.”

“That’s the chance I prefer. The chance I would gladly take. Looking over my shoulder, waiting for Menendez would be easier than living in fear of what could happen to you and Marta, and to Alejandro.” Marissa looked from Juan to Marta, to Alejandro who played quietly in the dust. “He’s the child I couldn’t have, I won’t risk losing him.”

“This is our country.” Juan was adamant. “The estancia has been my home. If we stay, no suspicions will be aroused. The only newcomers will be those who inherit what your father left. We will be as safe here as anywhere, once you’re gone.”

“You don’t think someone might remember, as you say, and talk to the new owners?” Jefferson drew Marissa back to him. With his arm resting across her shoulder, he discovered the brush of the tips of her hair against his wrist had the power to tantalize, even in times of crisis.

“We are an isolated people, caring little for what happens in the world beyond the plain. The news of the crash and the suspicion of a bomb came first to me. Marissa was already in hiding before I spoke of the deaths to anyone. For all those of the estancia know, she had gone to join her family on the plane.

“Later, on the occasion of my visits here, Marta made sensible, believable explanations.” Juan’s look met Jefferson’s, daring him to doubt Marta. “As she convinced the curious you were an American journalist seeking a story, Señor Cade.”

“It’s too flimsy, Juan. You can’t trust that no one will question the timing.” It was naive of the gaucho to believe he could protect Marissa so easily. But Jefferson realized he couldn’t convince this most stubborn man of it. A man who didn’t want to uproot his family and turn his back on the only way of life he’d ever known any less than he wanted to see Marissa hurt.

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