Danger Close Read online

  Drawn to her bedroom, he stood at the door to regard the bed where they'd lost themselves to passion. While neatly made, the coverlet bore the impression of Maddy's body. She'd lain there, perhaps reading the leather bound book, lying face-down on her nightstand.

  Curious, Sam crossed the room to pick it up. The realization that it was a journal had him sinking down on the bed, instantly intrigued and thinking he'd stumbled upon Maddy's diary. Except the dates at the top of each entry were ten years old. He skimmed several passages, absorbing the words of an intelligent woman on a passionate mission to improve the environment. It sounded just like Maddy talking, except Maddy had been a teenager at the time, which meant this journal was probably her mother's.

  Sam looked up, thinking back to what he'd read in Maddy's file about her mother. An avid environmentalist, Melinda Scott's plane had crashed into the Pantanal region of Brazil on her way home from Paraguay a decade earlier. Understanding dawned like a sunrise in his mind. Maddy had made it her life's mission to fill her mother's shoes.

  Suddenly he understood her—so clearly that it took his breath away.

  No wonder she cared so little about her personal safety, her own comforts. She was chasing after a spirit, perhaps hoping to be reunited with her eventually.

  A shiver coursed Sam's spine.

  A knock at the door had him setting down the journal with a guilty start. Certain it was one of his leading petty officers, whom he'd instructed to fetch him the moment the SEALs got news, he hurried to answer.

  Bullfrog's half smile beat back Sam's foreboding. "We've got a lead," he said. Dimples flashed on his lean cheeks.

  "What lead?" Sam joined him on the stoop, locking the door from the inside and shutting it behind him.

  "GEF received an email with a video link to YouTube. The terrorists posted a ransom video online, probably figuring it couldn't be traced."

  Hope vied with dread at the prospect of seeing Maddy in her captor's clutches. On YouTube, a video like that wouldn't stay secret for long.

  "The CO's waiting so we can all watch it together."

  Sam leaped off the stoop with Bullfrog right behind him.

  In the TOC, he found every SEAL in the task unit already seated, eyes glued to the Internet browser projected on the large monitor.

  "There you are," the CO boomed as Sam joined them, muttering an apology. "Have a seat."

  Sam dropped into the only empty seat left in the room. Someone cut the lights. Mad Max clicked the link, and Sam found himself staring at Maddy wearing Middle-Eastern garb, even a scarf over her bright head. A lump of helplessness swelled in his throat as the camera focused on her luminous eyes, wet with tears she refused to shed.

  The window behind her was barred. He could hear a rooster crow. Then a male voice declared in a cultured, British accent, that Madison Scott, an employee of the Global Environmental Fund, would remain a hostage of the National Liberation Army of Paraguay unless Scott Oil Corporation met their demands.

  Sam catalogued clues as he listened to the terrorist's demands. The speaker had obviously been educated in England, and sounded polished. Given the view through the window, Maddy was being held on a second floor. A crowing rooster suggested the location was set in a rural area, not in the heart of town.

  "Our demands are simple," the voice continued. "We require Scott Oil Corporation to cease operations entirely until a majority of its shares are owned by Paraguayan investors. The sale of shares must be offered before closing hours Friday or the hostage will be put to death."

  Sam flicked the CO a look of disbelief. Those were the only demands? Aside from the threat of death, it sounded all too reasonable, not like the radical demands for which Hezbollah was famous. Surely Lyle Scott would do whatever it took to get Scott Oil Corporation to offer shares to Paraguayan investors. But wait. Lyle Scott wasn't the CEO of Scott Oil Corporation anymore—Van Slyke was.

  The screen flickered and the video ended at just over a minute in length.

  "How has GEF responded?" Sam wanted to know.

  "They haven't. But I understand they're in touch with Lyle Scott, who has already spoken with General DePuy. SOCOM wants us to locate the hostage and neutralize the situation ASAP before the terrorists realize whose daughter she is. JSOTF is deliberating. Once Hezbollah realizes her political value, they'll leverage it for all she's worth. The FBI's been authorized to help."

  Sam swallowed hard. Why couldn't Scott Oil just make this easy by meeting the terrorists' demands?

  "The problem is keeping news of this YouTube video from leaking to the media. Chances are they'll identify the hostage as Lyle Scott's daughter and it'll all be over."

  Worse and worse, Sam thought.

  "The FBI is working with Google now to get the video taken down. But there is one plus to having it posted on the Web. You want to tell them, Luther?"

  The towering ops officer cleared his throat. "Based on the Internet Service Provider's IP address and cashing servers used to upload this video, the FBI narrowed down the estimated location of the upload to a region on the northeast side of town."

  Hope stormed Sam's heart like Marines assaulting a beach.

  "We're getting closer." Lt. Lindstrom gestured to the blank screen. "Adding clues from the video, like the fact that she's being held on a second floor—there aren't that many two storied structures on the northeast side—we can narrow down her location to maybe half a dozen buildings within a five-square-mile area."

  Kuzinsky, who'd been quiet up to that point, stood up at the CO's nod. "Here's what we're going to do," he began.

  * * *

  A shout downstairs jarred Maddy from a light slumber. She sat up slowly on the spare bed. Salim hadn't returned in the wake of the proposal she'd rejected. Left alone in the room for hours, she'd finally succumbed to sleep after the sun went down.

  With Nasrallah presumably still outside her door, armed to the teeth, she heard Salim downstairs with the Hezbollah volunteers. Earlier, the sound of a television show suggested that they may have mended their differences, a circumstance that had reassured Maddy sufficiently to fall asleep. Now, however, the angry accusations floating through the floorboards suggested the truce was over.

  Straining to hear over her pounding heart, she wondered how the current disagreement might impact her safety. Aside from a hint of moonlight patterning the tiled floor, the room stood in darkness. The faint hoot of an owl floated through the barred window. Salim's voice, familiar to her now, was the easiest to discern. He sounded defensive, angry. She put her feet to the cool floor, crossed to a window, and peered longingly outside. The buildings she could see—so close yet impossible to reach—tormented her.

  The sudden thunder of footsteps, accompanied by a warning cry, had her whirling toward the door in alarm. Salim barked urgent instructions to his brother. The lock released, and he burst into the room, stepping through a wedge of moonlight that illuminated his furious expression as he locked the door behind him. Breathing hard, he surveyed her standing by the window.

  "I'm so sorry," he said on a wrenching note.

  It brought her closer. "What's wrong? What's happening?" she asked, knowing an urge to comfort him. Foreboding put a vice grip on the muscles at the base of her neck.

  "The others have discovered who you are—who you really are. It was on the news, word of your kidnapping. My mistake. The media identified you as the daughter of the founder of Scott Oil. I should never have posted the video online. Now that Ashraf and Musa know, they want to take you back to Beruit with them. Tonight. I forbade them," he added with a tremor in his voice. Apprehension seemed to ooze from his pores.

  Doubt and fear speared her. "Will they listen to you?" she whispered.

  He took a sudden step forward capturing her hands. She could feel his fingers trembling, and it did nothing to ease her rising terror. "I will protect you with my life," he promised.

  Shock ricocheted through Maddy's body. This is it. Counting on Salim's protection, sh
e had hoped that she would ultimately be spared, but his portentous words betrayed uncertainty. His colleagues had turned on him, denied his status as their leader, and were making plans to wrest her from his control.

  The sudden bark of gunfire from the bottom of the steps startled them both and confirmed her fears. Salim drew her swiftly toward the bathroom. "Stay inside and do not come out," he said, pressing an object into her hand.

  Maddy looked down, recognizing the dagger Nasrallah had used to cut off her cuffs the other day. Frozen in terror, she stared as Salim started to draw the door shut then hesitated. She knew what he would do next and made no move to stop him this time. Catching her jaw in his hand, he dipped his head and pressed a heartfelt kiss to her lips. His soft beard tickled her face. His gentle lips tasted of fear and farewell.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated, stepping back. The door closed behind him, and Maddy quickly locked it, acknowledging with a sick lurch in her stomach that it wouldn't keep anyone out for long.

  Chapter 12

  Sam held up a hand, signaling for the men ghosting him to hold their position. Leaning into the shadows of a stucco wall he thumbed his mike. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

  "Gunfire," Bronco corroborated. "Couple of blocks west."

  Relying on Brantley Adam's excellent judgment, Sam directed the majority of his platoon west, while sending two scouts in the opposite direction. They shouldn't put all their eggs in one basket.

  Every dwelling on the northeast side of Mariscal Estigarribia looked the same—a squat cinderblock or adobe structure surrounded by a yard and an eight-foot wall. Their primary objective was to locate and map every structure with two or more stories and leave two men observing it. They'd encountered four two-story structures so far, which left six men including him and two more on the prowl.

  Keeping his footfalls stealthy, Sam turned down a narrow road pitted with pot holes. Where are you, Maddy? He swore that he could smell her somewhere close by, or was the fragrance of climbing Bougainvillea playing tricks on his senses?

  The majority of the homes stood in darkness, their occupants sleeping. His toe made contact with an aluminum can, and it rolled into the street, prompting a dog to bark. Sam stilled. That was when he heard it, another spate of semi-automatic gunfire.

  "Talk to me, Chief," he exhorted Bronco.

  "Dead ahead, sir. Coming from across the field, on the other side of those palm trees. See the light? Right there."

  "Everyone, pick it up," Sam ordered, breaking into a run.

  * * *

  The rat-tat-tat of semi-automatic gunfire sounded like cannons going off.

  Maddy pressed herself into the corner of the tiled shower, one hand clamped over an ear, the other gripping the dagger for dear life. The thud of a body hitting the floor brought a whimper to her lips as she pictured young Nasrallah sprawled in the hallway, imagined the scarred devil and his companion stepping over him to throw their shoulders into the bedroom door.

  They fired at the lock, instead. An answering volley came from inside the room as Salim sought to defend himself.

  Thud. Another body hit the ground on the other side of the wall as one of the assailants fell.

  Then a voice—not Salim's—shouted threats from the hall into the bedroom. Salim called back what was clearly a refusal to surrender. Maddy's heart thundered into the silence that followed.

  Then an angry roar preceded an equally violent exchange of gunfire. Eyes closed, teeth gritted, Maddy cringed, praying for the noise to end, for Salim to be the victor. Something hit the bathroom door and slid down it, and in her mind's eye she pictured her protector, his eyes open, blood sliding from one corner of his mouth as he gasped his final breaths. Oh, no.

  Fury edged aside Maddy's terror. She drew herself upright. How dare the Hezbollah volunteers betray their leader, their host! She would not let them take her. She would not become a hostage of Hezbollah! Never!

  Her lungs expanded on an indrawn breath. Adrenaline galvanized her rigid muscles. Over the thundering of her heart, she could hear the ceramic lamp crackling under the footsteps. Salim's killer stopped before his victim. Hissing ugly words, he shoved the body aside. It fell like a sack of potatoes. The doorknob jiggled.

  Tucked behind the door in the shower stall, Maddy begged her mother's spirit for strength. The door shuddered as the terrorist threw his shoulder into it. The frame gave a crack. Another hit, and it would give. Maddy tightened her grip on the dagger.

  Crack! The door flew open, blocking her view of the intruder. She held her breath. Timing meant everything. She could sense him plumbing the dark room with his eyes, searching for her. The snout of his semi-automatic pistol slid past the door. If she waited too long, he would sense her presence right beside him.

  Now! Maddy stepped from the shower, grabbed the barrel and yanked, pulling her assailant into the room and straight into her outstretched hand, the one gripping the dagger. The blade met resistance in the form of his clothing, but then it slid with astonishing ease into his abdomen. She gave it an extra shove.

  With a choked exclamation, the terrorist stepped back, pulling on the trigger. As Maddy leaped back into the shower out of harm's way, bullets spewed the sink and mirror, shattering porcelain and glass, sending shards flying. The assailant staggered, let up on the trigger, and turned to regard her in astonishment.

  In the uncertain light she recognized him as the scarred devil who had slapped her, the one who had most likely killed Enrique. The dagger poked obscenely from his midsection.

  He weaved on his feet, raising his weapon to shoot her at point blank range.

  "No you don't," she snarled in a voice that raised the hairs on the back of her own neck. Jackknifing one leg, she shoved off the shower wall and struck her heel into his groin, sending him crashing into the wall opposite. Bullets strafed the tiles next to her shoulder, then the ceiling as he lost his balance. With a click, he ran abruptly out of ammunition.

  Maddy didn't wait to see if he would die. Darting past his listing form, she dashed into the room, only to draw up short at the sight of Salim, sprawled across the rug, his torso glistening with bullet wounds.

  He turned his head, miraculously still alive, and looked at her.

  "I'll go get help," she promised, her heart in her throat. "You'll be all right."

  He whispered something unintelligible as she sprang up again. Legs unsteady, she lurched for the door. I'm free! Horror usurped her giddiness as she stumbled upon Nasrallah, lying face down in a pool of his own blood, the second Hezbollah volunteer draped over him.

  With a sob, she edged around them. Down the stairs she flew, terrified of encountering more terrorists, relieved to find the house empty. A small TV lit the lower level, filling it with the discordant sounds of a television game show and canned applause. Disoriented, it took her a moment to find the exit, situated in the kitchen.

  She threw herself outside without looking first, running into fresh balmy air, a dark yard, and the arms of a stranger who sprang out of the shadows to grab her.

  * * *

  "It's me! Maddy, it's me," Sam exclaimed, hushing her scream of terror.

  She focused wild eyes on him. Gasping a breath of relief, she buried her face against his shoulder, shaking silently as he dragged her away from the house, behind the wall that circumscribed it. There, he tabbed his mike. "Target recovered. I say again, we have the target."

  Across the field separating this house from the others, lights blinked on in several of the adjacent buildings. The firefight had awakened the neighbors. They were bound to draw attention to themselves.

  Maddy shuddered against him. He pulled her closer, holding all her weight as her legs seemed to give out.

  "You're okay," he crooned. Sweeping a palm over the silky fall of her hair, he wrestled back the urge to break down and sob—he was that relieved to have her back alive, but they'd yet to secure the area. "Tell me what's going on," he requested, prying her gently off him so he could see her face
, ascertain whether she was hurt.

  She peered back at him, visibly shocked, and he took quick inventory of her injuries—a cut on her forehead, another on her lip. She was still wearing the chapan she'd worn in the ransom video. It covered her from head to toe, but she appeared otherwise unharmed.

  "There are two still alive," she whispered, her horror evident. "I stabbed the scarred devil, but he's not dead yet."

  No sooner had he keyed his mike alerting his platoon than a spate of semi-automatic gunfire hailed down from the second story window, peppering the other side of the wall and sending Sam sprawling over Maddy just in case.

  "He's still alive!" she cried, stiffening with fear beneath him.

  "It's okay. We can take him, Maddy." Craning his neck, he could see Bronco waving platoon members into position.

  Carl Wolfe pulled the pin out of a smoke grenade and launched it over the wall where it rolled in the sand before spewing a lovely violet cloud that concealed the SEALs as they scurried furtively toward the entrance, skirting the path of the bullets and preparing to storm the house. But before they stepped so much as a foot inside, a single shot rang out, and the semi-automatic gunfire ceased.

  What the hell just happened? Sam wondered.

  In his earpiece, the scuffle of rapid footsteps announced the SEALs' push into the house.

  "What's going on?" Maddy asked in a frayed voice.

  "It's almost over," he crooned, wanting to wipe that haunted expression off her face forever.

  "Bullfrog, we need you up here," Bronco said over the inter-team radio.

  Apparently, the medic's services were needed, telling Sam that someone was alive, but who? "Sit rep," he demanded, unwilling to get up and check for himself.

  "We've got two dead and two men down, both bleeding out. One is definitely that Al-Sadr motherfucker, the other one unknown."

  "Salim," Maddy whispered, making Sam wonder if she could overhear his chief.

  "Try to keep them both alive," Sam retorted, recalling Kuzinsky's orders.

  "Not gonna happen, sir. Al-Sadr was shot in the back by the guy we can't identify. Bullet's in his heart."