Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) (10 page)

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 himself 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."

"What makes you so sure terrorists broke into the lab?" Commander MacDougal asked. "It could have been anyone."

"The gun used to kill the guard was Russian, probably a Makarov, given the bullet found in his skull."

"Well, it's a good thing your colleague wasn't there," Mad Max observed.

Ricardo nodded his agreement. "A
very
good thing," he agreed, "especially since she's a young woman. Who knows what they might have done to her?"

Sam must have made some kind of choking sound because every set of eyes in the room, including Kuzinsky's, flicked in his direction. He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands in order to mask his consternation. Only Bronco could have guessed the reason for it. Ricardo's colleague had to be Maddy Scott. What other young female would be skirting disaster?

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. He heard Ricardo insinuate that Hezbollah had realized they could strike at the heart of the Great Satan by attacking U.S. interests in South America versus attacking the U.S.A outright. It was up to the SEALs to stop them.

After taking a few questions, Ricardo glanced at his watch and said that he had to be going.

Mad Max appeared a bit nonplussed that the case officer was wrapping up the meeting prematurely, but in deference to the man's exhaustion and to his status as a new father, Max agreed that they could pick up the conversation at their next meeting. The CO stood up and the others followed suit, their height and breadth making the CIA contact look slight by comparison.

Compelled to share a private word with Ricardo, Sam arrived first at the door, but then protocol demanded that he hold it open while everyone filed out ahead of him—all except for Bronco, who trailed him down the flag-stone corridor.

"I can't believe she's here," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Sam ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on Ricardo's dark head. When the man excused himself and slipped out of a side door, Sam gestured for Bronco to proceed with the others. He waited for all the SEALs to turn a corner before ducking out of the door and giving chase.

Pushing outside, he allowed his eyes a split second to adjust to the dark. He'd emerged in the grassy area between the administration building and the outer wall of the installation. As a gate clanked shut before him, he chased Ricardo's shadow through it and, seconds later, stepped out onto the main road. The headlights of an approaching car illuminated a lone figure crossing the street. Sam checked the urge to call Ricardo's name as he couldn't risk being overheard.

Dodging the oncoming car, he pursued the operative. By the time he reached the other side, the man was gone. Sam searched the stoops of the squat buildings to the left and right. Spying an alley between two buildings, he waded into it.

"Ricardo," he called softly.

A scuffling sound was his only warning before he found himself flung face-first against the wall of a house. The rough adobe surface scraped his cheek.

"Why are you following me?" a silky voice inquired.

While he marveled at Ricardo's stealth, the man was no match for him. Still, Sam submitted to having his arm twisted behind his back. "I'm not," he said. "I just have a question for you."

The case officer released him. "And you couldn't ask me this question earlier?" He glanced toward an open window as a light came on, and they both moved away from it into the shadows. "What is it?"

"Your colleague," Sam began, "the woman who works in the lab with you. It's Madison Scott, isn't it?"

Ricardo's dark eyes flashed with surprise. "How do you know Maddy?"

Sam didn't care for the sound of her nickname on another man's lips. "I'm a friend of her father's." Not technically a lie since he'd saved Lyle Scott's life. "Sam Sasseville." He stuck out a hand and Ricardo shook it.

"Oh, yes, she mentioned you once." Ricardo's gaze flickered over him, appraising him. "You're the Navy SEAL who took her out of Matamoros. She'll never forgive you for that."

Initial satisfaction that she'd mentioned him gave way to disquiet upon hearing that she still held a grudge. "Is she okay," he asked, "after what happened at the lab?"

Ricardo's gaze flickered toward the lit window where a silhouette moved behind the curtain. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" he suggested, gesturing toward it. "This is her condo. Mine is attached on the other side." Turning, he started to walk away.

Sam ripped his gaze from the window. "Wait! No, I can't talk to her," he protested, but Ricardo had managed to vaporize into the night. The silhouette behind the curtain disappeared.

Maddy
. Sam's blood thrummed at the realization that she was just on the other side of that glass. He'd told his men that they weren't to have any contact with her, and yet here he was, practically on her doorstep and, for the life of him, he lacked the willpower to simply walk away.

As he took the few steps to her front door, casting guilty glances at the barracks across the street, he told himself he would only check to see how she fared at having come upon a murdered guard that day. Not that he owed Lyle Scott any sort of allegiance, but any father would appreciate a friend checking on his daughter's emotional state following a scare. Making up his mind, he approached her door.

* * *

The downy hair on Maddy's forearms prickled. Someone outside her window had been watching her. She had sensed a presence when she went to ascertain that the window was locked. Hauling the flimsy curtain across the glass, she tucked herself in the corner of the room and hugged herself in fear.

Were the terrorists watching already, waiting for her to slip up?

She hadn't told a soul about the threat to her life—not even Ricardo. With the advent of darkness, her fears overwhelmed her suddenly. Had the leader with the blue-green eyes regretted his impulse to let her live? Would he find her as he'd threatened and finish her off?

Glimpsing the night sky through her kitchen window, Maddy darted across the room to draw the curtain over her sink. Feeling slightly safer, she turned and eyed her small refrigerator. She had yet to eat but she had no appetite to speak of, not with the vision of Enrique's fissured skull still so fresh in her memory. Perhaps a stiff drink would calm her jitters.

In the cabinet, she located the bottle of native rum she had bought at the market and tipped the bottle to her lips, swallowing a gulp. The sweet, scalding liquid made her eyes water. She went to take another sip only to freeze with the bottle halfway to her mouth when a knock reverberated through her half-furnished condo.

Good God!
She set down the bottle before she dropped it. Her heart threw itself against her breastbone as she envisioned the Middle Eastern leader on her doorstep. Perhaps he'd decided she would betray him and his men, after all? She would open the door and he would shoot her on the spot.

She edged toward the hallway, intending to hide under her bed or, better yet, crawl out of her bedroom window and run to Ricardo, who could protect her with his gun.

She had just fled into her dark room when the knock came again, "Maddy," called a distinctly American voice. "It's me, Sam."

She whirled and stared at the door in stupefaction.
Sam?
How could Sam be here? Her gaze darted to the rum still sitting on the counter. She had to be hallucinating.

"Open up. I want to know if you're okay."

That had to be Sam. No one else was so infernally bossy. She retraced her steps to unlock the door with uncertain hands. The light from her condominium fell on Sam's rugged beauty—crooked nose and all—his broad shoulders and long legs. Without thinking, she launched herself at him, hugging him with a whimper of relief.

"Whoa, hey, hello to you, too," he exclaimed, clearly not expecting such a warm welcome. With a glance over his shoulder, he maneuvered them both inside of the building and shut the door with his heel, all without releasing her.

Maddy held tight, absorbing reassurance from the breadth of his chest and mustering the strength to stop digging her fingers into his camouflage jacket. She couldn't afford to look weak in front of him. Collecting her composure, she released him and stepped back. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He didn't answer right away. Jungle green eyes raked her pale face, sliding down her rigid torso to the fingers she was curling into fists. "What's going on?" he countered.

"What do you mean?" A sudden suspicion had her clapping a hand to her forehead. "My father sent you here again?" she railed, anger driving back her fear.

"No."

His immediate assurance only confused her more. "Then he sent you here to spy on me," she concluded, still bristling.

"Wrong again. I just met your colleague, Ricardo."

"Ricardo?" What did Ricardo have to do with any of this?

"He mentioned what happened at the lab today."

An image of Enrique flashed before her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Sam continued. "You seem...," he angled his head with suspicion, "you don't seem like yourself."

She tore her gaze from his all-seeing eyes and fixed it on the bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. "I think I'm drunk," she said, seizing the first excuse she could think of.

He glanced over at the bottle. "The bottle's still full. You sure you're not just scared?"

Maddy lifted her chin a notch. "Of course not." She ruined that assertion by all but jumping out of her skin as Sam laid a hand squarely over her thumping heart.