Danger Close Page 12

  Still, with her head exposed, she felt nearly as vulnerable as she had last night. She could feel several sets of eyes tracking her progress as she picked her way along the uneven sidewalk. Were they friendly and brown? Or were they hostile, blue-green eyes that calculated her every move to decide whether she should live or die?

  Chapter 9

  Six hours of sleep was plenty to keep Sam's platoon alert during the briefing called by the CO. At fifteen hundred hours, he ordered Haiku to roust the men out of their bunks. They'd been sleeping ever since Charlie Platoon relieved them from their reconnaissance that morning.

  No sooner had his platoon members thumped into their seats in the briefing room than Mad Max, Kuzinsky, and Lt. Lindstrom swept in, shutting the door behind them.

  "At ease," Mad Max called out, keeping them from having to jump to their feet to salute. "Master Chief, give these men the latest sit rep," he ordered, folding his arms over his broad chest and letting Kuzinsky take over.

  "Charlie Platoon has nothing to report," the master chief relayed. "The camp still appears deserted. Luckily, we just received JSOTF's blessing, which means we're cleared to insert tonight."

  A wave of excitement rippled over the captive audience.

  Lt. Lindstrom, whose six and a half feet of pure muscle made Kuzinsky look even shorter by comparison, toggled the laptop and brought up an aerial view of the terrorist training camp onto the flat screen TV.

  "You'll join Charlie Platoon on site tonight at twenty hundred hours," he explained. "They'll provide backup while you men do the insertion." He briefly met Sam's gaze. "You've had more rest than they have," he said, defending that decision, "plus you've got the best breacher in this task unit." His gaze slid toward Petty Officer Carl Wolfe, a rangy SEAL with reddish brown hair and sunburnt skin. "And odds are high that this camp is laden with IEDs."

  Humble to the point of being a martyr, Carl Wolfe's cool head around explosives had secured Sam's respect back in Afghanistan. His father, a New York City fireman, had perished in the World Trade Center on 9/11, a tragedy that had inspired Carl's desire to join in the fight against terror. He hadn't spoken more than a dozen sentences in Sam's presence the entire year that he'd been in Sam's platoon. All Sam knew about Carl was that he loved cats, he was quiet, and didn't make waves. The men trusted their very lives to him.

  Lindstrom proceeded to illustrate their entry in timed segments. Like choreographed dancers, Echo Platoon would breach the outer perimeter while Charlie broke away from the camp in an expanding circle looking for squirters—enemy combatants fleeing the scene either above ground or via unidentified tunnels. At the same time, Echo Platoon, with Carl in the lead, would penetrate the camp. On the lookout for trip wires or pressure plates that could trigger ordinances to explode, they would home in on the large shelter into which the terrorists had disappeared.

  With a trickle of foreboding, Sam acknowledged the possibility that he or one of his men might be maimed or even killed tonight, depending on how effectively the tangoes had built their bombs. Would Maddy even look at him twice if he lost a foot like T-Rex? Reassuringly, the answer wasn't an immediate No. Maddy was nothing if not compassionate. Her calling to help wherever she was needed was proof of that. Hell, she might even like him better if he couldn't walk.

  With that only slightly reassuring thought, he focused on the details coming out of the Ops officer's mouth. Even though Lindstrom would remain a radio call away, platoon leaders were the highest ranking officers on site. The responsibility of ensuring that everything happened the way it was supposed to rested solely on his and Lt. Cooper's shoulders, while the leading petty officers, Bronco and Bullfrog included, ensured that everything went according to plan. They'd done this kind of thing a zillion times in training and a dozen times in real life. They could do it again.

  Except that nothing ever went down the same way twice.

  "We're looking for a backdoor," Lindstrom continued. "Old photographs and letters from the 19th century indicate that there were gold mines in the area, later used in the Chaco War to hide supplies and men. Our targets may have used a tunnel to escape the area unseen."

  He bent way over to tap a key on his laptop, and the photograph of a wild-eyed, scar-faced terrorist superimposed itself on the screen. "One of the guys we're looking to capture is this Hezbollah extremist, Ashraf Al-Sadr." Sam recognized the man as one of the two Maddy had identified.

  "This son of a bitch," Lindstrom said, using language he reserved exclusively for the most sadistic assholes on the planet, "is believed responsible for the rash of car bombings in Beirut earlier this year. He fled Lebanon sometime in March, before he could be arrested, and he apparently wound up out here. If you come across him, debilitate him if you must, but we want him alive. Any questions? Yes?"

  As Haiku asked a question about radio frequencies, Sam looked past him and caught Bamm-Bamm eyeing him hopefully. The kid so obviously wanted to be included in the action tonight. No SEAL worth his salt would want to be left out, but it wasn't to be. With a subtle shake of his head, Sam let Austin Collins know that—no, he was needed right here at camp, keeping watch on Maddy's condo.

  The kid actually had the audacity to roll his eyes in frustration. Sam's temper flared, but then he acknowledged that he'd reacted similarly when he'd been forced out of that op in Malaysia in order to snatch Maddy out of Matamoros. Now it was Bamm-Bamm's turn. Hopefully, they'd catch the terrorists tonight, and then he wouldn't be saddled with a job he felt was beneath his skills and training.

  * * *

  In the shadow of the military installation's outer wall, Bamm-Bamm smeared his face with dark-green camouflage paint. The stuff went on like mud. It was even harder to take off than it was to put on. He hadn't been told he had to use it, but he'd been spotted last night by Chief Adams who'd been looking for Lt. Sasseville, which meant he needed to step up his game tonight.

  Feeling cheated for having been left out of a highlight event in Operation Anaconda, Bamm-Bamm reminded himself what an honor it was to protect the daughter of a future senator. And if the reason had something to do with that scar-faced terrorist Lt. Lindstrom had showed them during the briefing, then his protection detail might actually put him into confrontation with some nasty terrorists—not that he wanted them to target Miss Scott. But if they did, he'd be ready.

  Pushing the tin of camo paint into his breast pocket, he checked that the clip on his MP-5 was fully loaded, pushed his helmet more securely onto his head, and nimbly swung his compact frame up into the quebracho tree behind him. The tree, one of dozens that had been planted inside the military installation, grew up close to the wall and well above it, affording him a bird's-eye view of Miss Scott's condo while keeping him within the perimeter of the camp.

  Fifteen feet into the air, he lay back on the thick, forked branch that had been his perch last night when he'd watched Lt. Sasseville break into her door with a credit card. The lieutenant had stayed in there until he was joined an hour later by Miss Scott, who'd come out of the neighbor's house. The two might have spent the entire evening together if Chief Adams hadn't come huffing up to the tree asking Bamm-Bamm if he knew where the LT was.

  Sure enough, he'd known. He'd even had a good idea of what Lt. Sasseville was doing at the time, and Master Chief Kuzinsky wouldn't like it, but Bamm-Bamm wasn't about to rat on his platoon leader for getting a piece of action when they weren't supposed to have anything to do with the civilian population.

  Tonight, Miss Scott's condo looked dark and deserted. The sky had turned a deep indigo blue in anticipation of nighttime. Already, it was shot with the same stars that had prompted him last night to recollect the names of all the constellations. As a bright kid growing up in the hicks of Kentucky, he'd taught himself to identify them all. But tonight he would remain vigilant, so no stargazing. Miss Scott, he already knew, liked to keep the lights blazing. Her dark condo told him that, despite the vehicle parked out front, she wasn't home.

  Flipping d
own his NVGs, he scanned the street, wondering where she might be and scoping out potential threats. His thoughtful gaze returned to a nondescript van parked a block up the road from her home. A man sat unmoving in the driver's seat. Squinting through his NVGs, Bamm-Bamm wondered if he was seeing a neon-green beard or if the man was wearing a fuzzy sweater. He swiveled his head in the opposite direction, and that was when he caught sight of two individuals hustling up the sidewalk from the heart of town.

  The long hair and lithe curves of Miss Scott made her immediately identifiable as she hurried ahead of a shorter woman. That woman was her neighbor, Bamm-Bamm determined, spying a sling across her chest with the baby in it. The women walked as quickly as they could along the unlit and uneven sidewalk, looking antsy about the lateness of the hour.

  Suddenly the lights on the van blinked on, catching them in its high beams as it pulled from the curb and rumbled toward them. Bamm-Bamm's pulse accelerated as he split his attention between the women and the approaching van. He willed it to rumble right past them. Miss Scott finally saw it, her stride faltering. He saw her step in front of her companion as if to protect her.

  "Drive on by," Bamm-Bamm whispered, hefting his submachine gun just in case.

  The angles were not at all in his favor. With a tell-tale screeching of brakes, the van slowed as it neared the women, blocking them from Bamm-Bamm's view. A misfired shot might go right over the top of the van or through a window and strike either one of them.

  "Damn it!" he hissed, debating whether to jump out of the tree and get a better angle. But then the wall would briefly obstruct his view and he didn't dare take his eyes off Miss Scott.

  Except that he couldn't even see her. The sound of a van door grating open greeted his ears, followed by the bark of a male voice. This wasn't good.

  A woman screamed, prompting Bamm-Bamm to make a decision. Aiming at the tires, he depressed the trigger, deflating both passenger-side tires in an instant. The van listed. A door slammed shut and the van pulled forward, tires slapping the ground. Jiggling wildly, it nonetheless accelerated, pulling farther and farther away, leaving one woman cowering on the sidewalk where there had been two previously. Miss Scott had been taken.

  "No!" Horrified, Bamm-Bamm shot at the retreating taillights. They exploded under the onslaught of his bullets, but the vehicle didn't stop.

  With a wild leap out of the tree, he managed to land on his feet. Sprinting to the gate, he yanked it open and stepped out into the street, swinging his MP-5 up to shoot, just as the van turned out of sight at the next intersection.

  Too late.

  Stunned, Bamm-Bamm stared in consternation at the neighbor now screaming for help in front of her condo. Knowing there was little he could do for her, he lowered his weapon and crossed the street to see if she was injured. The necessity of telling his platoon leader what had happened made him cringe. He'd screwed up royally. Lt. Sasseville would never trust him again.

  * * *

  This isn't a dream.

  The blue-green eyes that had haunted Maddy since the incident at the warehouse glinted within the shadowy interior of the vehicle, making it suddenly clear what was happening. One minute, she'd been anticipating the cool shower awaiting her inside her condo, the next she'd been staring into the barrel of the gun and realizing if she didn't cooperate, then baby Isabella and Lucía might be gunned down. Her nightmare had just morphed into reality.

  To the accompaniment of gunfire—coming from where?—the besieged van had lurched forward, and her nemesis had caught her against his uniformed chest, keeping her from losing her seat. The sound of shattering plastic paired with the thunk of a bullet embedding itself in the van's bumper had given her to realize that someone endeavored to prevent her from abduction. Only, it was too late now. Though hampered by flat tires, the vehicle had nonetheless lumbered from the scene, and the sound of gunfire ceased.

  Peering through the dark, her heart thundering, Maddy recognized the same men who'd forced their way into the lab last week. The cruel one with a scar bisecting his right cheek seized her wrists, cinching them together and binding them with a plastic zip-tie while the youngest glared up at her from the floor. Their leader, meanwhile kept a firm arm around her shoulders as the fourth man drove the van. Even with flat tires, it floundered on.

  Steeped in shock, Maddy failed to respond to the spate of Lebanese being muttered in her ear. The sting of a brisk slap brought her sharply to reality. Not a dream at all.

  "Enough," barked the leader, speaking in English for her sake, she realized. The scarred devil who'd slapped her backed off.

  Taking heart from her nemesis's mercy, Maddy turned her head to regard his handsome profile. His jewel-like eyes returned her scrutiny. He'd spared her life the last time. She could only hope he would do the same now.

  But the inscrutable lines of his face said otherwise as he returned her frightened gaze with a long stare. Dread chilled Maddy to the bone. She averted her eyes, her thoughts flying at once to Sam. He had failed to keep her safe. What made her think he could find and rescue her now that she'd been taken?

  She was doomed—unless she admitted to these terrorists whose daughter she was. Would that guarantee her safety? Her father would pay any sum required to secure her freedom, but what if money wasn't their goal?

  It probably wasn't. She shouldn't tell them anything.

  Sam and his teammates would have to rescue her. But how would they know where to find her? My satellite phone! She could feel it burning a hole in her back pocket, broadcasting her location with its built-in GPS. Hope surged through her, driving away the paralyzing effect of shock. But if the terrorists found it, they would immediately seize it and destroy it. She had to keep it out of sight, perhaps even hide it before they found it.

  With the wobbling van masking her movements and hampered by the cuff that bound her wrists, she managed to draw her phone from her back pocket. Silencing it with her thumbnail, she deliberated where to hide it. Here in the van or wait until they arrived at their final destination? The longer she held it, the more chance it would be seen and seized.

  The seat on which she sat provided a solution. She could feel a crease right at her fingertips between the bench and the back of the seat, with just enough room in between to push the phone out of sight. With trembling fingers, she slid it into the aperture.

  Find me, Sam! Tears of desperation swarmed into her eyes. Find me and save me!

  * * *

  God, I hate spiders.

  "Sir, wait!"

  Carl Wolfe's last-second admonition froze Sam in the act of reaching past the EOD expert to sweep aside the spider web that draped like a curtain from the tunnel's low ceiling. Directing his gaze downward, Sam saw what he'd completely overlooked in his quest to keep all spiders from dropping onto his helmet and scuttling down his back: the glint of a needle-thin filament bisecting the tunnel right in front of the foot he was about to lift.

  The terrorists hadn't been content with wiring the shed to blow sky-high. They'd bobby-trapped their escape route, too, apparently.

  A cold sweat breached Sam's pores in an instant. Lifting his right arm at an angle, he wordlessly communicated to Bronco, who followed some distance behind them, to halt.

  "You might want to step back, sir," Carl suggested sounding as calm and unruffled as a still pool of water.

  Swallowing hard, Sam slowly backed up. With his shirt sticking to his back and his mouth desert-dry, he watched the EOD expert crouch over the menacing filament and follow the path it took to a tin bucket standing inconspicuously off to one side.

  The tunnel had been built just wide enough to allow a wagon to be pulled through it. Littered with relics of two past eras—mining and war—it was filled with rusted trowels, buckets, and bottles, all vestiges of decades gone by. The bucket didn't look any more suspicious than the others Sam had seen. But Carl's low whistle conveyed that it was packed with enough gunpowder and hardware to shred a man's flesh.

  As Carl w
ent to work disarming the device, Sam sought to slow the tempo of his convulsing heart. His gaze flickered to the lumber and metal plates buttressing the crumbling walls. Over a hundred years old, the tunnel had obviously been put back into service by the terrorists, who'd used it to sneak past Charlie Platoon's reconnaissance because they sure as hell weren't in the camp anymore. They weren't down here, either, not with the place rigged to blow sky high.

  Sam had never envisioned himself being buried alive. But that was the death that awaited him if Carl failed to disarm the IED. A rivulet of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.

  I should have gone all the way with Maddy.

  Of all the regrets he might have entertained, that was the one that came to mind. He'd cheated himself out of a life-defining moment, and if he didn't survive this night, he'd never get another chance to make her his.

  In an effort to distract himself, he keyed his mike. "Cougar, this is Eagle," he murmured, smoothing the tremor of uncertainty from his voice. "Any idea yet where this tunnel ends?" He and his men had been following it for half a mile or more. If he knew the end was near, maybe he could shake the sense of doom pressing down on his shoulders.

  Lt. Cooper's chipper reply was a balm to his ears. "Roger that, Eagle. We've located your exit. Looks like it was trespassed a while back by our targets. You've got maybe two hundred yards to go. How's it going down there?"

  "It's ugly," Sam reported, revealing his true feelings. His earpiece crackled as another voice broke into the conversation.

  "Sir, this is Bullfrog. HQ reports a secondary situation."

  Something in Jeremiah's voice suggested Sam wasn't going to like what he heard. "What is it?"

  "Bamm-Bamm just informed Master Chief that Miss Scott was abducted. She was grabbed right off the street as she approached her house. Bamm-Bamm managed to compromise the vehicle—a white van—but it got away all the same."

  The tunnel seemed to shrink in on Sam, boxing him in on every side. He stared desperately at Carl who was now bent over the IED wielding a pair of specialized clippers. Come on, buddy. You can do it.