Blood Vortex by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2020-10-01T16:23:26+00:00

Suite 109, North Wing

Julian Cepeda closed and double-locked the hotel door behind him. He then retrieved one of the suite’s three matching straight-backed chairs and wedged it underneath the door’s handle as extra reinforcement.

“That should hold it.”

From behind him, Carolina Salazar remarked, “The Irishmen must have been stupid asses, letting a stranger in their suite.”

“Most of the delegates are strangers to each other, my love,” Cepeda said, turning to face her.

The endearment never would have passed his lips in public. Certain members of Colombia’s Ejército de Liberación Nacional knew that Cepeda’s feelings for Carolina Salazar extended beyond politics and guerrilla warfare. While wider leaks were always possible, the tabloid press at home had never broached the subject of their long-running affair.

And if the story broke someday...well, then, everyone could just go to hell. Cepeda had never heard it said that soldiers should be starved of sexual release.

“I need a shower,” Salazar said as she slipped off her denim jacket, tossing it onto the nearer side of Cepeda’s king-size bed. She wore a white T-shirt beneath, tucked into blue jeans, with their cuffs in turn tucked into ankle-high suede boots. The Glock wedged in between her belt and T-shirt at the back, positioned for a right-hand draw, made her seem all the more erotic to Cepeda.

“May I join you, my darling?”

“I’d feel slighted if you didn’t,” she replied, smiling. “And bring your big rod, eh?”

“I don’t go anywhere without it,” he assured her as she peeled off the T-shirt and dropped it on the floor, revealing small but perfect breasts.

Cepeda was already grappling with his shirt, unbuttoning it in a rush, as Salazar sat, pulled off her boots, then wriggled out of her confining jeans. Again, as was her habit, she had managed to dispense with underwear. Rising once again, she pivoted on tiptoe, showing off the fashion model’s body that had earned her living prior to meeting Julian Cepeda and deciding that her time was better spent pursuing Che Guevara’s revolutionary dream—that was, between their fevered bouts of lovemaking.

Cepeda was a few paces behind her as she stepped into their suite’s spacious bathroom, its centerpiece a glassed-in shower roughly twelve feet square. Above that shower, to the left, a window made of pebbled glass stood half open, its wire screen preventing forest insects from encroaching on the couple’s privacy.

Cepeda watched, fiercely tumescent, as Salazar stepped into the shower, turned it on, and shivered until she had managed to adjust the water’s temperature to her liking. With her back turned toward him, Salazar reached out to a shelf at shoulder height, unwrapped a bar of soap, and started lathering her body. Midway through that process, though, the soap slipped from her grasp and landed on the tile between her feet.

“Christ, I’m so clumsy. Will you help me?”

“My absolute pleasure,” Cepeda replied.

He stepped into the shower’s spray, her back still turned to him, and bowed to reach between her feet. Rising, he handed back the bar of soap, then slid his arms around her waist, hands sliding up to find her soapy breasts.

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