Danger Close Page 6

  The statement wrested Haiku and Bullfrog from a game of rock/paper/scissors as they contended over the lower bunk. "Who's he talking about?" Haiku asked Bullfrog who merely shrugged.

  "Madison Scott," Bronco explained, and Sam immediately hushed him.

  Bullfrog clearly recognized the name. His intelligent features reflected skepticism. "No way. What would she be doing here?"

  "I don't know, but she passed our bus in a Jeep," Bronco insisted. He turned back to Sam. "I'm telling you, that was her, sir."

  Sam groaned and briefly closed his eyes. "Shut the door," he requested.

  Haiku, a Japanese American, kicked it shut with his heel, muffling the sound of the task unit settling into their new digs.

  "Listen." Sam leveled a stern look at his closest colleagues—Chief Brantley Adams, who was called Bronco for his ability to stay atop a wild horse; Petty Officer First Class Jeremiah Winters, also known as Bullfrog for his ability to swim; and First Class Chuck Suzuki, nicknamed Haiku for his depth and brevity. "You heard Master Chief remind us not to rub elbows with the civilians here. So, even if that was Madison Scott—and I'm not saying that it was—I'm not going to reach out to her. She knows what I do, and rumors would start to circulate."

  He offered the kind of logic they would understand, though his own reasons for avoiding her were far murkier and had more to do with mistrust than national security.

  Bronco folded muscular arms across his lean but powerful chest. Suspicion flattened the customary quirk that rode the corner of his mouth. "What the hell is she even doing here?" he demanded.

  Sam shrugged. Good question. "Her father got her a job with an environmental company. She's probably testing the impact of the oil wells on the environment."

  "Like she was testing the water in Mexico when the drug lords got the upper hand," Bronco recalled.

  "Exactly."

  "Why would her father want her working in the vicinity of terrorists?" Bullfrog asked.

  Sam sighed. "I don't know. It doesn't make much sense," he admitted, recalling how protective Lyle Scott was of his only daughter.

  "Maybe he owns the oil wells," Haiku suggested, his slanted eyes narrowing. "Aren't they owned by Scott Oil Corporation?"

  Sam couldn't remember. "Are they?"

  Haiku nodded. "I'm pretty sure I read that in a report."

  Sam brooded. "Still doesn't make sense. Her father's not even the CEO anymore. He had to abdicate control in order to run for the Senate." The suspicion that Lyle Scott wanted to throw him and Maddy together again stitched through his thoughts a second time. "Forget it," he said, rolling abruptly to his feet. "We're not here to socialize anyway. Let's just keep the hell away from her and stick to the mission."

  Bronco sent him a slow grin. "You tryin' to convince yourself or us?" he needled.

  Sam's thunderous scowl sent most men scuttling away from him. Chief Brantley Adams merely issued his signature evil chuckle and turned away. Glaring at the chief's sun-streaked head, Sam realized Bronco was right. He was trying very hard to convince himself.

  * * *

  GEF's chemical lab was a cinderblock building topped by a tin roof and surrounded by a chain-link fence. Erected in a desolate area between the town Mariscal Estigarribia and the wilds of El Chaco, it took Maddy twenty minutes to arrive at the guard house.

  She leaned out of the driver's side window with a smile. "Hey, Enrique," she sang out.

  The fulltime security guard set aside the comic book he was reading and frowned to see her all alone. "Where is Senor Ricardo?" he demanded.

  In fluent Spanish, Maddy explained Ricardo's happy circumstances, adding that she'd be collecting samples on her own today and not to worry. Enrique unlocked the gate and swung it open, locking it again as Maddy parked the Jeep inside.

  Pressing the four-number code into the combination lock on the lab's only door, she admitted herself. Kept at a cool sixty-six degrees by the generator that ran nonstop outside, the interior offered blessed relief from the heat. She flipped on the lights and dropped into the chair at the computer where she logged in and printed out the list of the supplies she would need that day.

  Carrying the list down the aisles, she collected kits to test alkalinity and Ph along with baggies and vials in which to store the samples for the titrometric, eletrometric, and colorimetric tests she would run that afternoon when she got back.

  She had just returned to the desk with her supplies when a loud pop! sounded over the grinding generator. Maddy dumped the supplies on the desk and hurried to the door to peer through the inset window.

  A vision of four swarthy men dressed in military-style uniforms, brandishing pistols, and standing over Enrique's prone figure brought a cry of horror to her lips.

  Whirling, she headed straight to the landline phone and snatched up the receiver. The dead silence that greeted her had her pushing buttons to no effect. As she slowly hung up, her gaze went regretfully to the door. Her state-of-the-art satellite phone, a gift from her father, was sitting uselessly in the cup holder out in the Jeep. Now what? The only thing left to her was to hide.

  Heart pounding, she ducked behind a shelving unit and waited.

  Would the locked lab door keep the intruders out? As the seconds ticked by, curiosity got the better of her. Just as she peered around the corner a man peeked through the inset window. She snatched her head back. But it was too late. He'd caught sight of her. Pounding at the door, he demanded entrance.

  Oh, God, what do I do? There was no immediate way out of her predicament, no second exit, no way to call for help.

  A series of shots volleyed at the lock brought a whimper to her lips. Sweat filmed Maddy's skin as the door yawned abruptly open, admitting a wedge of sunlight. She backed up, but with a wall at her back and shelves on either side, there was no escape. With furtive footfalls, the four intruders rounded the shelves with their pistols pointed directly at her.

  Maddy swallowed hard. Their bearded faces and bone structure identified them as Middle Easterners, not locals. She'd traveled enough to tell the difference. The murderous intent in their tanned faces gave way to astonishment as they beheld the lone white woman staring back at them.

  Into the awful silence, Maddy whispered, "As-salam alaykum," greeting them in Arabic. Communication, as she'd once told Sam, was the key to negotiating peace.

  One of the men, a young handsome soldier with a trimmed beard and startling turquoise eyes, stepped closer. He cocked his head, running a thorough gaze over her conservative blouse and light-weight capris. Vulnerability left her feeling as naked as the night Sam and Bronco had surprised her in Matamoros.

  Orbiting like a raptor circling its prey, he stretched out a hand, caught a tendril of her bright hair and slid it through his fingers. She held her breath, determined not to flinch or show fear.

  Why, oh, why hadn't she listened to Ricardo? These men had to be the terrorists she'd heard rumors about, and they'd just shot Enrique. Surely they would shoot her, too—or rape her first and then kill her.

  The leader seemed to recollect himself, releasing her hair. "You're North American?" he demanded, speaking flawless British English.

  "Yes," Maddy admitted reluctantly. Being American wouldn't endear her to these men, but she couldn't bring herself to betray her country and lie.

  "We are looking for nitric acid," the leader told her unexpectedly. "You must have some here."

  Maddy's brain responded sluggishly. Her heart thudded with the hope that they'd let her live if she gave them what they sought. "I think we have several liters."

  "Show me," he invited with an eloquent sweep of his hand.

  On knees that jittered, she stepped between them, leading them back toward the front of the room toward a unit of shelves near the desk. There the brown glass bottles of nitric acid, used to determine trace metals in fresh water, lined the lower shelf. She counted six in all. "Help yourself," she offered, praying they had no nefarious plans in mind for the nitric acid.

/>   As the leader holstered his weapon, an older soldier, heavily bearded, with black-eyes and an ugly scar on his cheek, kept his pistol trained on her. The leader bent over, selected the bottles one at a time, and passed them off to the other two soldiers until the shelf stood bare. Returning his attention to Maddy, he then murmured something in his native tongue to his companions. While completely unintelligible, the words could only mean one thing.

  This is it. Maddy swayed on her feet, rocked by the force of her thundering heart. Now they're going to kill me.

  A harsh protest to the leader's words issued from the scar-faced soldier. Clearly, he objected to whatever his leader had just said. He gestured rudely at Maddy. Hatred radiated from his dark eyes and his lips twisted into an ugly sneer. It couldn't be more obvious that he wanted her dead.

  Maddy felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

  The handsome leader sent her a contemplative look. Then, in a quiet voice nonetheless redolent with authority, he gestured toward the exit, clearly exhorting the others to leave. Two of the three soldiers exchanged suspicious looks, but the youngest, who bore a resemblance to the leader, turned unquestioningly to the door, and the others grudgingly followed. The door clanged shut, and Maddy found herself alone with their superior.

  The supplies she had dumped on the desk earlier caught his eye. Her heart beat an irregular tattoo as he stepped closer to them. He picked up the sheet she'd printed out and scanned it.

  "Madison Scott?" he asked.

  The sound of her name on his lips bewildered her, but then she realized he'd just read it off the printout.

  He looked up at her sharply, thoughts flowing behind his jewel-like eyes. "Is that your name?"

  "Yes," she admitted, seeing no point in lying. No one knew who her father was here in Paraguay so what difference did it make?

  "Hmm." He folded the printout three times and slid it into his breast pocket. Then, to her horror, he drew his pistol from the holster at his hip, flicked the safety with his thumb and pointed it at her.

  "Please don't." Maddy's voice came out on a whisper. How could he be so handsome and so ruthless at the same time? But then, Sam was, too. A wave of regret rolled through her. She would never get to see Sam again.

  "Turn around," the terrorist ordered.

  Tears rushed into her eyes as she struggled to accept her helplessness. No amount of talking or pleading could help her now. He was set on killing her. Dread-filled, she slowly turned her back on him.

  Bang! A bullet cracked through the air, and Maddy's legs buckled, her knees striking the cement floor.

  Chapter 5

  I'm dead. The shocking realization slammed through Maddy. But she could still feel her heart pounding, hear the blood roaring in her ears. And the floor under her hands and knees felt cool to the touch, which meant she couldn't be dead.

  With a gasp, she glanced up and craned her neck too look back at the shooter. Maybe he'd missed? Evidently, he hadn't. He stood with his pistol aimed up at the ceiling where a pinpoint of light now shone through the tin roof overhead. He'd fired at the ceiling, sparing her life.

  Looking almost angry with himself, he stalked toward her and crouched until his face was even with her own. "Say nothing of this to anyone," he hissed. "You came here and you found the guard dead, the place broken into. Do not mention me or my friends, and I will let you live. If not," He nudged her chin with the tip of his pistol, his warm breath fanning her cheek, "I will find you, and I will kill you. Am I clear?"

  His perfect English screamed of an Oxford education. Maddy sought her voice. "Yes," she wheezed.

  "Good." His blue-green gaze centered on her lips and, for a dreadful moment, Maddy feared that he would take advantage of her subjugation to force a kiss on her. But then he straightened, and air whooshed out of her lungs.

  Without a backward glance, he stalked on his booted feet to the exit. The door opened and closed firmly behind him. She heard him issue instructions to his companions. Their boots tramped across the yard, moving away from the building. Then, in the distance, an engine purred, tires spun up gravel, then all went quiet.

  Maddy didn't move. Scarcely daring to breathe, she waited to see if the terrorists would come back. But then she remembered Enrique, and she clambered shakily to her feet.

  The sunlight blinded her as she staggered out the door and across the yard to the guard lying face-down in the dust. Maddy dropped down beside him only to stifle a cry of horror. There was nothing she could do for the man whose brain was partly gone.

  The leader's warning replayed itself in her mind. It dawned on her that by firing that one shot he'd led his companions to believe she was dead, also. For some unknown reason—human decency?—he had let her live. But there was nothing decent about the way Enrique had been killed.

  Rising, she weaved a moment, overcome by shock and the oppressive heat. Then she tottered toward the Jeep, where she reached for her satphone sitting undisturbed in the cup holder. With hands that shook, she dialed GEF headquarters. When the operator answered, she heard herself tell him exactly what the soldier had told her to say.

  Being the only blond American woman within a hundred mile radius, it wouldn't be hard for him to hunt her down. Leaving Paraguay was not an option, either—not when she had barely just arrived and was still so eager to accomplish something meaningful.

  And so she stuck to the story.

  Hanging up a minute later, she sat in numb disbelief until the distant wail of a siren grew louder, pulling her from her trance. GEF headquarters had called the authorities for her. She wouldn't tell them a word about what had actually happened.

  * * *

  Only the top brass within the task unit got to meet with their CIA contact. As one of the two platoon leaders, Sam found himself included, along with his chief, Bronco. Charlie Platoon's leader and chief were there, as well, plus the three men in charge: Mad Max, Master Chief Kuzinsky, and Lt. Lindstrom. If the CIA case officer, Ricardo Villabuena, felt intimidated in the presence of such experienced warriors, he didn't show it. To Sam's astute eyes, he looked perfectly at ease, even a little tired.

  "You'll have to forgive me if I fail to make much sense tonight," he said, taking his seat at the long table in their make-shift Operations Center. Ornate chandeliers, remnants of an earlier era, hung over the heavy table casting shadows of Ricardo's long eyelashes onto his cheekbones. "My wife just gave birth to our first child three hours ago. It was a long labor, but they're both doing well."

  Commander MacDougal's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Good for you!" he exclaimed as the other SEALs chimed in with words of congratulation. "Boy or girl?"

  "Baby girl," Ricardo answered, heaving a weighty sigh.

  Given the man's line of work, Sam marveled that his family actually traveled with him.

  "My wife is Paraguayan," the operative added, clarifying Sam's confusion. "I met her here just a year ago."

  "I see," said Mad Max. "You didn't waste any time starting a family."

  "I don't believe in wasting time," Ricardo agreed, sitting forward and segueing smoothly into the reason for their meeting, "so I won't waste yours." In subtly accented English that suggested he was Puerto Rican by birth, the case officer, whose intelligence on the terrorists was the reason they were here, explained that Lebanese males wearing military-style uniforms had first been spotted shopping in the market in Mariscal Estigarribia.

  Since Ricardo had first arrived to study them, they had grown into an Army of seventy-two soldiers. Calling themselves the National Liberation Army, they trained weekly in a camp located in the wilds of El Chaco. They owned three armored trucks, along with an unknown arsenal of military supplies flown into Mariscal Estigarribia from the Middle East.

  "There are plenty of Lebanese in Paraguay, so most of the soldiers are Paraguayan by birth. However, the weapons they carry and the uniforms they wear come straight from Hezbollah. Here's where their camp is situated."

  Leaning over the table, Ricardo helped hi
mself to the laptop that displayed a map of the region. He first zoomed in on Mariscal Estigarribia, then toggled north and west to Paraguay's border with Bolivia. "It's ninety-three kilometers from town and only eight kilometers from the nearest oil well."

  "Owned by Scott Oil Corporation," Mad Max finished.

  "Exactly."

  Sam's pulse spiked to hear his suspicions corroborated. He exchanged a knowing look with Bronco. So, the wells were, in fact, owned by Scott Oil, but Lyle Scott no longer ran the company. What did that mean? Had he influenced the Joint Special Operations Taskforce to get the SEALs to protect the oil wells, or not?

  Ricardo sat back to regard every man in the room. "Having only one Special Forces battalion and no air power to speak of, Paraguay relies on the U.S. to defend what are essentially our own interests—twenty-eight oil wells, spread out across the region." He nodded at the papers he had handed out. "In your packet, you'll find a copy of my surveillance notes. Turn to page three."

  Sam flipped through the stapled pages to a crude drawing of the terrorists' base camp. "That should give you a comprehensive picture of their facility. It took me several months to gather this much information. My cover job keeps me busy doing other things."

  "What's your cover job?" the operations officer inquired.

  "I work for an environmental company, the Global Environmental Facility," Ricardo offered.

  A humming filled Sam's ears. The realization that Ricardo Villabuena probably knew Maddy Scott, maybe even worked with her, made his heart pump irregularly.

  "What do you do for them?" Lindstrom asked.

  "We perform water and soil samples around El Chaco, measuring the impact of the oil wells on the environment. As a matter of fact, something happened today at the lab where I work that makes me suspect that the terrorists were involved."

  The offhand statement garnered Sam's full attention. "What happened?" he was the first to ask.

  "My colleague found our security guard shot in the head. The lock on the warehouse door had been compromised and six bottles of nitric acid were stolen. As you probably know, nitric acid is a base ingredient in most high-velocity explosives. It looks to me like these terrorist are preparing to blow up a target. Scott Oil is aware of the threat and upping security of their wells and processing plants."