“That isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is. I was indoors when the abduction started. I ran outside and stepped in between Pitón—the man you killed—and the journalists. I should have taken cover and just let the abduction happen. I wasn’t able to stop it. Instead, Pitón took me, too.”
“You took care of the other hostages and made it easier for us to rescue them.”
She smiled. “Aloteasier. I wrote a coded letter to my contact, disguised as a letter to my Reverend Mother, and gave him our location.”
Dylan stared at her, stunned. “That intel came fromyou?”
He remembered what Tower had said in the briefing about the ironclad intel regarding drug trafficking at the Mission—and the location of the hostages.
She laughed, the sound like music to Dylan’s ears. “It’s amazing the kind of respect you get when people believe you’re a religious sister. Even from you.”
It was the truth.
“Yesterday, I apologized for swearing in front of you, and now I’m fucking you.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” She slid her hands over his pecs. “Do you prefer it this way?”
“Oh, hell, yeah.” Still, he was curious. “What was it like—being a nun?”
* * *
Gabriela wasn’tsure Dylan would understand. “The experience taught me a lot. It made me a better officer.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. You spec ops guys with your high-tech gear have gotnothingon nuns when it comes to discipline or attention to detail. I promise you that.”
He snorted. “Right.”
She’d known he would react that way. “Before they sent me to Peru, I spent six weeks in Chicago with Sister Monica for what I called nun boot camp.”
“Nun boot camp? What’s that—learning the Rosary, memorizing Bible verses, practicing your ‘you should feel guilty’ look, a lot of kneeling? I have to say I like you on your knees, by the way.”
She ignored his teasing. “Nun boot camp means going to bed at seven-thirty every evening, getting up every day at midnight for Matins, then rising for the day at three-thirty in the morning to pray in silence for three hours before attending Mass.”
“Threehours?” He gaped at her.
“It’s called the Great Silence.”
“How much could one person have to say to God, anyway?”
“When you pray for the needs of others—the mother with cancer in São Paolo, the teen in Buenos Aires who’s addicted to drugs, the man who lost his job in Bogotá—three hours goes by fast. The Sisters answered prayer requests from around the world.”
He seemed to consider this. “I guess that would be a big job.”
She found herself smiling at memories. “That first night, I fell asleep during the Great Silence only to wake up when Sister Monica gave me a nudge. She said, ‘The Mother Superior will be able to tell whether a Sister is praying or sleeping.’ I tried hard not to let it happen again.”
“Spec ops guys are up at all hours, too, and the jet lag is real.”
“But it’s not every single day until you die. Nuns don’t get vacation.”
Dylan frowned. “No, not every day.”
“Every day is pretty much the same—seven prayer times a day interspersed with Mass, two work periods, and a social hour where you’re allowed to talk.”
“A bunch of womennottalking?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s hard for me to believe. Didn’t you cheat and just whisper?”