Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) (15 page)

Commander MacDougal introduced him to their two guests. "Gentlemen, this is Lt. Sasseville. Sam, this is General DePuy, head of SOCOM."

"Sir." Sam nodded respectfully to the silver haired man at the head of the table, the friend of Lyle Scott.

"And this is the CEO of Scott Oil Corporation, Paul Van Slyke."

"Nice to meet you," Sam said with another nod.

Van Slyke was a once-handsome man in his fifties. Like Lyle Scott, he was tall and barrel-chested, but years of comfortable living had put bags under his eyes and left him with a paunch, whereas Maddy's father had kept fit. Blue-gray eyes, similar to Maddy's in hue, held a keen light as he returned Sam's greeting before addressing the group as a whole.

"I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I think circumstances certainly call for it," he insisted with an air of natural command. No doubt he felt his wealth entitled him to it. "Not only has Well 23 been destroyed but now I fear for the fate of the other wells, not to mention my employees."

General DePuy chimed in his opinion of the bombing. "This is just the beginning," he insisted. The loose jowls around his face quivered with certainty. "The CIA has been cognizant of the threat for more than a year now. It's taken that long to get our Special Forces positioned to do something. Now this. I consider the attack today a blatant declaration of war."

Sam was sorry Ricardo wasn't here to defend his reconnoitering.

"Blatant," Van Slyke echoed. He set his hands with their neatly manicured, interlaced fingers on the table top and eyed Commander MacDougal expectantly. "The threat has got to be annihilated before any lives are lost."

Sam fully appreciated Kuzinsky's perplexed expression. Why was the CEO of a private corporation telling the SEALs what to do? Even General DePuy was also overstepping his bounds. It was the Joint Special Operations Task Force that made decisions in the field, not SOCOM. Who'd invited these gentlemen down here in the first place?

General DePuy cleared his throat in the ensuing silence. "I'm sure the SEALs are planning to take immediate action," he stated with confidence.

The scornful lift of Commander MacDougal's mustache negated DePuy's assertion "It's not our job to protect Scott Oil's employees. Until we're cleared by JSOTF to take preemptive measures, our hands are tied."

DePuy nodded his understanding. "Well, that's only a matter of time, Commander," he insisted. "I can assure you that
all
of the Joint Chiefs of Staff are in full approval of taking immediate action."

The CO clearly could have cared less what the Joint Chiefs thought. "Our reconnaissance of the terrorist camp began twelve short hours ago. Thanks to the CIA, we have a rough headcount of the hostiles, but no knowledge of the extent of their arsenal. Before you can defeat the enemy, you must know them, General. You know that. Raw force begets more violence. If we attack Hezbollah here, you can bet your ass they'll retaliate elsewhere. We have diplomats and contractors in Lebanon who'll want advanced warning before they find themselves targeted. When I hear from JSOTF, that's when I'll take action."

"And, in the meantime, my wells remain vulnerable," Van Slyke objected with a tragic shake of his head.

"I'm sorry if you feel like you wasted a trip down here," MacDougal replied, his tone overly polite.

"Not at all." Scott Oil's new CEO waved aside the apology. "Actually, I own a house nearby, the one on top of the hill. Perhaps you've seen it?"

Sam pictured the monstrosity to which the man had to be referring. There wasn't any way to overlook it. Once home to Paraguay's top generals during the Chaco War, the stucco mansion lorded over Mariscal Estigarribia like an aging aristocrat.

Mad Max appeared less than thrilled to learn of Van Slyke's proximity. "What about you, sir?" he asked DePuy.

"Heading back to Tampa tomorrow. I'll convey your reservations to the Joint Chiefs. I'm sure you'll be hearing from JSOTF shortly," he averred, pushing his chair back.

Keeping an eye on Van Slyke, Sam was the last to stand. He pondered Van Slyke's relationship with Lyle Scott. Was he a good friend, a relative?

At last, the man took note of his curious regard. "I'm sorry, but have we met?" he inquired, flashing a smile that showed bleached white, perfectly even teeth. "You look familiar."

Not unless Lyle had mentioned him. Sam broke eye contact. "I don't think so," he muttered, sensing Kuzinsky's watchful gaze.

"Hmm." Van Slyke considered him a moment longer, then turned to the door with a shrug.

Sam was glad to see him go. However polite, the man's insinuation that the SEALs should protect his oil wells reminded him of what he loathed most about the filthy rich. They simply assumed that those beneath them, even U.S. Navy SEALs, catered to their wishes.

As Van Slyke eased into the hall, Sam caught another glimpse of the CEO's bodyguard. Recognition shook the bars of his caged memory. Where the hell had he seen that man before?

"That's one big SOB," Bronco murmured, following his gaze.

"Sure is." Sam glanced at his watch and jumped in alarm. "Shit! We're supposed to relieve Charlie Platoon in half an hour," he hissed, lifting an alarmed gaze at Bronco then a wary glance in Kuzinsky's direction.

Bronco sent him a wry smile. "Vehicles are gassed up, and the men are waiting."

Sam could have hugged his chief for saving his hide yet again, but not with his superior officers still milling about. "Man, I owe you," he said, giving Bronco's shoulder a squeeze as they both headed for the door. Kuzinsky's voice stopped Sam in his tracks.

"Lieutenant, a word with you?" Kuzinsky had hung back as the room emptied.

"I'll meet you at the gate," Sam said, freeing his chief to go ahead while resigning himself to a subtle ass chewing.

The CO left, too, taking the last few SEALs with him. Rusty Kuzinsky didn't waste any time getting to the matter at hand. "I know you weren't out running earlier, so where were you really?" His nearly black eyes seemed to look straight through him.

Being an officer, Sam technically outranked the senior enlisted man. He could have told him to mind his own business. However, considering Kuzinsky's twenty five years of experience and the fact that he'd survived some of the worst firefights in SEAL history, it was no secret to Sam who was really in charge. The man deserved a decent explanation, even if it meant putting himself in the hot seat.

Dipping two fingers into his breast pocket, he pulled out the folded printout of the known Hezbollah extremists and handed it to Kuzinsky, who glanced at it quizzically.

"I went across the street," he admitted, "to ask the GEF employee if the men responsible for blowing up the oil well looked like any of these guys."

Kuzinsky shot him a sharp look. "You mean Villabuena's colleague? What makes you think she got a look at them?"

"She didn't—not today, anyway. But she was at the lab when they broke into it."

Master Chief's freckled forehead puckered. "That's not what Villabuena told us."

"That's because she kept the truth from him. Tonight, she admitted to me that she was in the lab when the terrorists shot the security guard and broke in. Their leader, a man with blue-green eyes, threatened to find her and kill her if she said a word about it."

"One of these men?" Kuzinsky frowned down at the printout.

"No. The only tangos she could identify were this guy and this guy." He tapped their photos with his finger. "Their leader isn't here."

"Ashraf Al-Sadr and Musa Hamade," Kuzinsky muttered, flicking Sam a grave look. "These are some bad motherfuckers, Sam. She's lucky she's alive."

Sam swallowed hard. Hearing Kuzinsky articulate just how lucky Maddy was made him suddenly queasy. By some miracle, the terrorists had let her live. He should probably get on the phone tonight and convince Lyle Scott to snatch Maddy out of the country, with or without her consent.

Kuzinsky's dark eyes skewered him again. "You made the right decision to question her, but next time you clear it with me, first." He paused then added, "I hope you're not getting friendly with this woman."

The memory of licking Maddy's heated skin jagged through Sam's thoughts like a bolt of lightning.
Little too late for that
.

"No, Master Chief," he muttered, feeling his face heat. "But you should know who she is."

"What do you mean, who she is?"

"She's Madison Scott, the woman we were tasked to recover from Matamoros."

Kuzinsky's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "And now she's here?" he asked, looking thunderstruck.

Sam shrugged. "Go figure." He inclined his head toward the shorter man's just in case the wall had ears. "Then along comes the new CEO of Scott Oil telling us to hurry up and eliminate these terrorists that are threatening his oil wells. Makes you wonder if General DePuy lives in Scott Oil's back pocket," he added. "I mean, are we protecting the oil company's interests or American interests?"

Kuzinsky's dark eyes studied Sam's cynical expression. "That's a pretty serious insinuation, Lieutenant."

Sam straightened. "Yeah, well, I'm a pretty serious guy, Master Chief."

The other man rubbed his jaw in a familiar, harried gesture. "We'd better keep these thoughts to ourselves for a while," he suggested. "In the meantime, I'd advise you to steer clear of the honey pot."

Another wave of heat climbed Sam's neck. "Roger that, Master Chief." All too conscious of the fact that Maddy's scent still clung to his upper lip, he averted his hot face and fled the room.

If his platoon was going to relieve their counterpart on time, they'd better get a move on.

As for Maddy, he'd found it impossible to keep his distance so far. How was he going to find the strength to stay away now that he'd almost caved into his attraction? All he could think about was how to reach heaven in her arms without disobeying a direct command or getting emotionally entangled with a woman who might not be leveling with him about her motives.

Chapter 8

With a face caked in camouflage paint, Sam squirmed into position next to the dark form of Charlie Platoon's leader—Lt. Junior Grade Corey Cooper.

Sam didn't envy Cooper's impossible task of filling his predecessor's shoes. Tyler Rexall, the smartest most confident SEAL Sam had ever known was the previous leader for Charlie Platoon. Eight months ago, T-Rex had had his foot blown off when their task unit had operated in Malaysia on a mission to capture the notorious arms dealer, Haji Telemong. That effort had ended with Tyler's injury and the task unit's premature departure.

This past spring, Sam had missed out on the opportunity to avenge Tyler's fate when the task unit returned to Malaysia. Instead, he'd been tasked with snatching Maddy out of Mexico, along with Bronco, Haiku, and Bullfrog. Luckily, the rest of the task unit had completed the mission without them, locating and eliminating Haji Telemong for good. But the arms dealer's death couldn't give back T-Rex his foot or even the career he'd lost in their first failed attempt.
 

And now Cooper was having a tough time trying to replace Tyler. The lanky SEAL had found a sheltered location on a sandy berm protected by a thicket of thorny bushes a hundred yards from the terrorist's training camp. He sent Sam a look that, even in the dark, conveyed frustration.

"Sit rep," Sam whispered, requesting a situational report. He could tell by the agitation thrumming in the high-strung Cooper that the situation wasn't what he wanted it to be.

"There is no situation," Cooper reported, not bothering to whisper. "As far as we can tell, no one's even here."

Seriously?
Sam stole a peek over the top of the impenetrable vegetation. Circumscribed by tall coils of concertina wire, then a chain-link fence topped by more barbed wire, the terrorists' camp consisted of several crude wooden structures and a training yard complete with an obstacle course. Not a single light flickered in the buildings' few windows. There were no voices to be heard, no sign of movement whatsoever. A chilly desert breeze kicked up spumes of dust here and there contributing to the impression that the place lay utterly deserted.

Sam looked back down at Cooper. "I thought we had a confirmed sighting of unfriendlies earlier this evening."