Touching Midnight Page 9

  Regardless of how much she tried to categorize what had happened as just a strange and vivid dream, there was no way she could ignore that part of it. The healing, at least, had been real.

  As she snagged the strap of her rucksack, the memory of the last time she’d “dreamed” was abruptly vivid, and something in her mind connected and fused. The tantalizing knowledge that had eluded her during the dream surfaced, and this time it stayed. Gooseflesh rose all along her back and arms, and prickled at her nape. Now she knew why the man had been so familiar, and she wondered that she could ever not have recognized him.

  As she pushed free of the rapidly darkening grove, the plummeting temperature finally penetrated, and she gave a raw shiver.

  “Great,” she muttered, as she slipped and slid her way down the rough slope in the gathering dark. The last thing she wanted to dwell on was the fact that she’d psychic-dreamed twice, and that, just to add to the general weirdness of it all, the same guy had starred each time.

  Eleven

  Quin swung out of the truck, narrowing her eyes at the cloud of dust that enveloped her and bracing herself against the cool, blustery wind blowing in off the sea—an astringent counterpart to the heat of the midday sun.

  The docks at Vacaro were bustling. A container ship was anchored close in, and another was headed out to sea, leaving churned water and a stream of diesel fumes in its wake—growing smaller by the second.

  She found Diego, the agent who dealt with the mission’s order, just outside the rabbit warren he labeled his office, busy tying down the tarp on his small truck.

  “About time.” He jerked his head toward a pallet. “It’s all over there. Yours is the last one.” He handed her the clipboard that held their consignment note. “What took you so long?”

  Quin signaled for Luis, the youngest of Jose’s five sons, who was presently working for the mission, to back the old flatbed up to their pallet of goods. She grimaced as black diesel fumes burst from the exhaust. “The Bedford broke down and it took a while to get it going. Same old story.”

  Diego fished in his pocket, handed her a pen and gestured at the paperwork.

  She frowned. “What’s the hurry? Shouldn’t we check the goods off first?”

  His dark eyes shifted restlessly along the docks. “I have to go. If there’s a discrepancy, let me know and I’ll follow it up.”

  “How do I know you’ll follow it up?”

  He paused long enough in tying down his load to shoot her a reproving glance. “I’ve been doing your order for ten years. Have you ever known me not to chase up a discrepancy?”

  Quin eyed Diego as he moved around the truck, his blunt profile, the wisps of salt-and-pepper hair plastered over his balding head, the signature braces stretched around a belly that, these days, was broader than his shoulders. Usually he was painfully slow and meticulous, and she was left kicking her heels, waiting, while he double-checked that every last sack of flour and box of tinned goods had been accounted for—which was precisely why the aunts had dealt with him for ten years. When it came to business, Olivia and Hannah didn’t take any prisoners.

  Scribbling her signature on the packing note, she peeled off her copy, and handed the clipboard and pen back to Diego. “I still don’t understand the hurry.”

  Diego tossed the clipboard and the pen through the side window of the truck. Quin frowned at the further uncharacteristic display. Some people were rabbits and some were tortoises: Diego was definitely a tortoise. Compared to his usual methodical demeanor, this was close to a manic state.

  “Some strange things have been happening around here. This morning a sick Ingles got offloaded by the Volodya. Manny thinks they really brought in a body, which would account for them leaving so fast.”

  At the word Ingles, every nerve ending in Quin’s body jumped to attention. The dream she’d had just days ago was still fresh and sharp in her mind; any mention of an Ingles would have compelled her attention, and a sick stranger being off-loaded from a ship was too strong a coincidence to ignore.

  Luis jumped down from the cab and joined them. “What Ingles?”

  Diego shrugged. “No one’s been to look. Everyone’s too busy guarding their supplies.” He swung behind the wheel of his truck, slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. “Apparently Ramirez is in town. I’m not staying to find out.”

  Quin put her hand on the window and leaned down, preventing Diego from leaving. “Why would the Volodya leave a man here?”

  Diego eyed her fingers with barely concealed impatience. “Who knows? Maybe he stowed away and got kicked off? Maybe he’s got some infectious disease? Whatever…the Russians dumped him and left fast. They didn’t even stay to go drinking at Manny’s, and that’s unusual.” A grin lightened his expression. “Manny’s still crying into his beer.”

  Quin’s grip on the window tightened. “How do you know the Ingles is sick?”

  Diego jerked his head in the direction of the end warehouse. “He got off-loaded down at number five on a stretcher at first light. I haven’t seen him walking around, so he must be bad, but I don’t think he’s dead. They wouldn’t have bothered bringing a body ashore. They would have buried him at sea.”

  Sweat trickled down the groove of Quin’s spine as she worked, sticking her shirt to her skin as she lifted a sack of flour onto the bed of the truck.

  Luis hefted a box of canned goods, his brow thunderous. “What do you want to see this Ingles for?”

  Flour puffed into her face as she dropped a second sack onto the deck. “I just want to.”

  Luis snorted. “That’s crazy. If he’s sick, you could catch something.”

  She grinned. “Not me, Luis. Us.”

  “Oh no, I’m not going. When we’re finished loading up, I’m driving this truck out of town. Didn’t you hear Diego? Ramirez is skulking around somewhere. You can stay if you want.”

  He dropped the box into place on the truck and turned a steely glare on her. “Not that I’ll allow you to stay.”

  Quin grabbed another sack, suppressing a grunt as she straightened with the load. The fact that Ramirez, a notorious outlaw, could possibly be in town was disconcerting, but no one had actually seen him. So far, it was just a rumor. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “I’m bigger than you.”

  “Fatter, maybe. I’m an inch taller.”

  He flexed his bicep. “See that. No fat, baby, just sheer muscle.”

  Quin rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m still taller.”

  “Just like a woman. What’s that little inch got to do with anything?”

  Quin suppressed a smirk. “Are you telling me size doesn’t matter? Not much,” she cut in, before Luis’s male outrage could swell out of control, “except that you’re the one who’s got the problem with it.”

  He let out a muffled snort, hefted another box of canned goods and dropped it on top of the first. “It’s probably those shoes you wear.”

  Quin set the sack down on the bed of the truck. “They’re sneakers, not high heels, and, if you recall, I’ve been taller than you since I was twelve.”

  Luis muttered beneath his breath. “No wonder Olivia wanted you out of the place. You’d drive a saint crazy. What’s wrong with you, girl? This sick guy can wait for Lopez.”

  “Don’t call me ‘girl.’ And no, he can’t,” she said shortly. “You know how slow Lopez is. His practice is so huge, he could be days away.”

  Luis stopped in the act of lifting two sacks of grain, his eyebrows raised goadingly as he unsubtly demonstrated that although he was an inch shorter, he was a lot stronger. “Don’t tell me. You’ve got one of those feelings?”

  “What if I have?”

  Luis heaved both sacks onto the back of the truck. “Then that’s just too bad. I have to balance your ‘feeling’ against the possibility of running into Ramirez. There’s only one reason for him to be here just when all the supply ships arrive.” He vaulted onto the flatbed and began arranging the
supplies so they were packed tight enough not to move in transit. “Those old ladies back at the mission can’t afford to lose this shipment.”

  “I need to check on him, Luis, that’s all.”

  His gaze was flat and cold. “No. And that’s final.”

  Quin didn’t bother with a comeback, because she knew that Luis was right and she was wrong. Ramirez was a dangerous criminal. There was no way they should go near an empty warehouse if there was any likelihood he was in the area. Besides, Luis was in charge on this trip, and she’d promised the aunts that she would listen to him—so long as he made sense.

  She picked up the packing note, ticked off the last items and tried to forget that a sick stranger had been dropped by the Volodya, but the fact that a Russian ship had dropped the man kept intruding into her mind.

  In the dream, the sailor who’d tended to the injured man had spoken in a foreign language. It hadn’t been Spanish or English, both of which she spoke fluently—or French or Italian, for that matter. The aunts had taught her enough of both languages that she understand their basic phonetics. The language in her dream had been more abrupt, the consonants hard.

  It was entirely possible that the language had been Russian.

  Twelve

  Luis parked the truck on the expanse of bare dirt outside warehouse number five. It was clear from the number of tire tracks cut into the powdery surface that recently there’d been bustling activity, but now the building appeared to be deserted.

  One of the large sliding doors had been left partially open, giving a narrow view into the shadowy interior.

  Luis studied the opening, his expression tight. “I don’t like it. One minute, and then we’re leaving.”

  Quin pushed the truck door open, her whole being focused on the warehouse. “A minute’s all I’ll need.”

  She would know in the first second.

  Less than a week had passed since the dream, and the image of the stranger lying sprawled on the ship’s bunk was etched on to her memory.

  Reaching behind the passenger seat, she retrieved the medical case that was always stored there and swung out of the truck. Dust swirled as she strode toward the opening, stinging her eyes as she lifted a hand to shield her gaze from the sun.

  The five warehouses were all as alike as peas in a pod, each with a set of offices to one side. Logic dictated they would have put him there, out of the way of the goods and heavy machinery the Volodya would have off-loaded.

  The sharp sound as Luis slammed his door, his curse as he paused to lock the vehicle, cut through the pressurized whine of surf and wind. “Quin, wait. Let me—”

  Luis’s hand landed on her arm as she stepped inside the warehouse. Impatiently, she shook him off.

  “Shit.” His hand locked around her arm, dragging her to a halt.

  Her gaze jerked to the raw flash of panic in Luis’s eyes—a split second later, she saw Ramirez.

  Adrenaline pumped, a hot flash that made her stomach knot and her heart pound.

  Quin caught a flickering movement out of the corner of her eye as two men slid through the shadows to position themselves behind her and Luis, cutting off their escape, and her throat locked. Well, that answered that question. Ramirez wasn’t just going to let them walk away.

  Her gaze skimmed the interior of the building. She counted eight men. With the two she knew were behind her, that brought the total to ten. She and Luis were almost ridiculously outnumbered.

  Ramirez detached himself from the wall, moving with lithe grace—a dark, well-muscled Mestizo, part Spanish, part Indian, abnormally tall, with biceps bulging from the cutoff arms of his shirt.

  More shadowy figures flowed down a narrow set of stairs that led to a mezzanine floor situated to one side of the building, and Quin’s stomach plunged again. Four more that she hadn’t seen, bringing the total of Ramirez’s gang to fourteen. Too late to wish she’d listened to Luis. Walking into the semidark of the warehouse after the glare of the midday sun had been flat-out dumb; they’d both been blinded.

  Ramirez came to a halt just meters away, his open shirt flapping slightly, revealing dark, defined muscles and the hilt of a knife glinting at his waist.

  “Luis,” she said tightly, and he stepped forward, shifting the open shirt that hung from his shoulders enough that the handgun he’d shoved into the waistband of his jeans became visible.

  The Browning had seen better days. It had a gouge in the handgrip that made it uncomfortable to hold for any length of time, a magazine that jammed and a kick like a mule, but it was a nine-millimeter, and its firepower was impressive. Luis had worked for a whole year to buy it from his older brother, who was currently running with the local band of the Shining Path, and he handled the weapon with the same kind of reverent respect he would have given to a religious relic. He’d let Quin shoot the Browning just twice. Both times he’d snatched it from her grasp when she’d complained that the gouge was scratching her palm.

  Ramirez’s gaze fixed on the handgun, and the tension ratcheted so tight that Quin could feel it like an actual pressure against her skin.

  She never thought she would be so glad that Luis carried such a lethal piece of equipment.

  A lazy command echoed through the warehouse, whispering off corrugated iron walls. There was a rustling movement, the metallic snap as magazines were shoved home and rounds chambered. Dull light glinted off metal as a motley assortment of arms was trained on them.

  Ramirez lifted his arm from his side to reveal that he held a sawed-off shotgun, which previously had been concealed against his thigh. With a slick motion, he brought the gun to bear, and for an endless moment Quin found herself looking down the twin barrels.

  With an effort of will, she dragged her gaze from the weapon, every part of her negating what was happening. Since she’d been old enough to comprehend language, she’d been taught about the sanctity of life. If Ramirez was going to shoot, he would shoot; she wasn’t going to give him the added satisfaction of watching him pull the trigger.

  A soft laugh added another layer to the tension. “Not going to play, huh?” He muttered an eclectic mix of insults in Spanish and Quechua for the entertainment of his men.

  Peripherally, Quin was aware of the barrel swinging down, and oxygen flooded her lungs, making her head spin.

  Ramirez’s gaze sought hers. Despite her reluctance to look into the eyes of a man who had a well-documented history of brutality, and who could kill for no perceptible reason other than that she and Luis had walked into a building he had staked a claim on, she found herself staring back.

  He indicated her medical bag with its Red Cross insignia on the side. “I know you. You’re from the mission.”

  There was no point denying it. Two years ago Ramirez had melted out of the jungle that flowed in the southern end of the valley and brought one of his men to the medical center. Quin had been helping Hannah that day and had ended up strapping the man’s broken arm after Hannah had straightened the bone and splinted it.

  He jerked his head, as if he’d just come to a decision. “I need medical attention. I was waiting for Lopez, but somehow, I don’t think he’s coming.”

  Placing his gun on the floor, he shrugged out of his shirt, the movement quick and graceful and punctuated by an angry grunt. He turned and jerked a finger at a swelling in his back.

  Quin eyed a boil the size of a tennis ball that was swelling to an ugly point just below his left shoulder blade and felt her insides go queasy. Apart from Lopez, Quin was the closest thing there was to a doctor for almost a hundred miles on this rough, almost deserted piece of coastline, but that didn’t mean she had a calling. “I’m not a doctor. You should wait for Lopez.”

  There was an uneasy ripple of laughter, the muttered Spanish equivalent of, “As if.”

  “Lopez has probably already called the military. If I wait much longer, the only ‘attention’ I’ll get is a body bag.”

  “Anyone can lance a boil. Why don’t you get one of yo
ur men to do it?”

  Ramirez slid the knife out of the waistband of his pants. The blade glinted in the narrow slice of sunlight that beamed in the door. “And which one would you choose to put the knife in my back?” He indicated the medical bag. “You can do it. And you.” He pinned Luis with a flat glare and jerked his head to the right. “Over there. In the corner, where I can see you.”

  Ramirez muttered a curt order, and a small table and a chair were produced from one of the offices. He gestured her toward the table and crossed his arms over his chest as she set the medical case down and flipped the lid.

  His breath washed over her face as he leaned forward to examine the scalpel she’d selected, and she tried hard not to dwell on the fact that apart from the boil on his back, Ramirez also needed dental surgery.

  “I want you to stitch it,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want a scar.”

  Quin clenched her jaw and tried not to breathe. “I can’t stitch it. Not unless you want a repeat performance. The wound has to drain. Once all the poison’s out, it’ll granulate.”

  “Granulate?” His eyes narrowed. “What in hell’s granulate?”

  She pulled on a set of latex gloves, and reached for a bottle of disinfectant and a plastic bag of cotton swabs. “It’s a fancy word for a scab, okay? Now sit down and keep still.”

  Gaze still slitted, Ramirez set the knife on the concrete floor alongside the gun—both within inches of his booted feet—then straddled the chair, presenting his back. He was still for approximately half a second, then craned around to watch, black eyes suspicious. “Is it going to hurt?”