Page 1 of Hot Soldier's Rescue

Chapter One

Elise Omayo paused just inside the dim sanctuary of Our Lady of Sacred Hope to soak up the silence and peace of the place. If only she could believe in the things this edifice stood for. She’d give anything to truly embrace ideals like love and faith. Redemption. Now there was a concept. People like her didn’t get second chances. Not in this life, and surely not in the next. The best she could hope to do was live out the remainder of her days in a way that didn’t add any more to her self-loathing.

“Elise! So good of you to come on such short notice. You look lovely as always.” Father Ambrose was a fussy little man, round and soft, but with piercing black eyes that cut through a person’s soul like twin lasers. Why he saw anything at all of worth in her, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

“You said you have a problem. Of course I came.” It was the least she could do for the man who’d talked her down off that bridge five years ago. Literally. Sure, she’d been out of her mind with grief and painkillers and a cocktail of who-knew-what else. But he’d literally climbed up on that railing beside her and convinced her to give him a chance to show her something worth living for. He’d pulled a lost orphan off the streets, given her a home and a purpose, and helped her reach her goal of becoming a nurse. So, here she was. She owed him a favor. A big one.

“Let’s go into my office. You look like you could use a nice cup of tea, dear.”

Tea? Uh-oh. He must be working himself up to asking her a big favor. Frowning, she followed him.

He hurried down the aisle, pausing briefly to cross himself in front of the altar. Funny how Father A. had never tried to make a Catholic out of her. He said it was God’s problem, not his. She wouldn’t have made a very good one, anyway, despite her grandmother’s best efforts over the years. Too many rituals, too much to remember. Not to mention that whole seven deadly sins business.

She waited patiently while the priest made two cups of steaming hot tea, English-style. When he was finished doctoring it up, the drink tasted more like hot chocolate than tea. She took a sip, promptly burned her tongue, and set the cup down. “Cut to the chase, Father. What do you need? You know I won’t say no, so go ahead and blurt it out.”

He sighed. “I’m hoping you will do something for me. Something possibly dangerous.”

“How dangerous?” She didn’t exactly live for thrills and chills, but she’d never shied away from a little risk for a good cause. She’d been known to make house calls in the roughest neighborhoods of New York City in the name of a patient in need.

“I need you to go to Colombia.”

Colombia. The word rolled over her like a bad dream. Tangled images of jungle and death, poverty and blood, flashed through her mind’s eye for an instant before the grief slammed into her. She reeled with the power of it. Just when she thought she’d made her peace with her parents’ murders, something went and tore the scab off again like this, leaving a raw and gaping wound in her heart.

Father Ambrose was speaking again. Struggling to breathe, she forced herself to focus on his words. “…pair of children have been orphaned in Colombia and are in need of assistance.”

Translation: the kids were caught up in the armed struggle between the Colombian government and one of several paramilitary or drug smuggling organizations currently opposing it. She knew all too well what it was like to be a pawn caught in the middle of that brush war. Belatedly, she choked out, “Who are they?”

“Mia and Emanuel Garza.”

She was halfway out of her seat before the names barely crossed the priest’s lips.No. No, no, no. She saw where this was going. Valdiron Garza had murdered her mother and father. But then the import of the word “orphan” sank in. She sank back down into her seat. “He’s dead?” she croaked.

“Yes, my child. He was gunned down in Cartagena a few weeks ago. It is over.”

“‘It’ being her fruitless, and ultimately self-destructive, quest for justice against Garza. Although failing that, she’d have settled for simple revenge.

The priest continued quietly, “I pray you will finally find the peace you seek.”

“Who says I seek peace?” she demanded.

“I do.”

His simple statement caught her off guard. Forced her into a moment of sharp self-evaluation. Was he right? Did she seek peace? The answer startled her. Perhaps she did.

“So Garza’s children are stuck in Colombia and looking for a way out. Surely you don’t expect me to go save them.”

“They are children—”

“Their father tortured and killed my parents!”

“—and innocent—”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “How old are these kids?”

“Six and four.”

“Oh, my God. They’re babies. You want me to haul them around in a war zone in the jungle?”

“No. I want you to bring them to me. I will find them decent homes here in America.”

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