Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) (7 page)

Just then a high powered beam strafed the tree trunks and caught his assailant full in the face. The man blocked the light with his arm, and Sam used the distraction to send him sprawling onto his side. The shooter rolled, managing to snatch up his fallen rifle and come to his feet in one athletic move. Ignoring the guard's shouted command to freeze, he bolted into the dark, and the guard crashed through the woods after him.

Sam pushed to his knees, his cheek throbbing mercilessly. He tried to get up on his feet and go after him, but the snout of a pistol gouged his spine, arresting his tentative ascent.

"Don't move," grated a voice over him. Apparently, the first guard had come with a partner.

Pain encapsulated Sam's whole head. He wasn't certain he could move in any case.

"Who are you?" the security guard demanded shining a penlight in Sam's eyes.

"He's the guest of honor, Ken," Maddy called, announcing her approach as she moved toward them.

The guard eyed her in surprise. "Looks like the perp was the other guy," he concluded, removing his pistol from between Sam's shoulder blades.

"You'd better help catch him," Sam advised, deciding it was both safe and feasible now to rise.

The guard split a considering look between them then took off after his partner. Sam deliberated whether he should join them in their hunt. He was still unarmed and not altogether certain he could run in a straight line. Maddy's gentle touch kept him where he was.

"Are you okay?" she queried, turning him toward the light. "Oh, your face!" she cried, cupping his jaw lightly.

"I'm fine." Fingering the welt on his left cheekbone, he winced. He had leaves in his hair and dirt on his uniform but if he'd saved Lyle Scott's life, it was worth it. "He was shooting at your father," he added, curtailing the fierce hug she threw around his chest.

"What? Daddy!"

As she spun away from him, he shot out a hand to catch her back. "Not so fast. There could be a second shooter," he warned. Tugging her behind him, he ignored his aching face and led her across the seemingly deserted lawn, using his body to shield her.

The scene awaiting them made Maddy gasp and pull free. He roped her in a second time as they approached the chillingly deserted veranda.

The guests had clearly fled into the house. The sniper's bullet had shattered one of the large French doors, and glass littered the surface of the veranda. It crackled under their shoes as they passed the toppled orchestra stands and scattered musical scores to enter the house. At least there wasn't any blood that Sam could see.

They came upon the guests huddling in the interior hallway, the only place in the house where there weren't any windows.

"Daddy!" Maddy caught sight of her father first and ran toward him.

Pacing protectively before his guests, his expression taut with concern, Lyle Scott whirled at the sound of Maddy's voice. He opened his arms in time to catch her as she hurled herself at him. "Maddy!" His eyes closed briefly in visible relief.

"I'm okay," she assured him. "How are you?" She pulled back to look at him. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No one." His gaze traveled over the top of her head and focused on Sam's swelling cheekbone. "My God, what happened?"

Maddy answered before he got the chance. "Sam saved your life, Daddy. I was showing him the stream out back when we heard someone in the woods."

The guests reacted with chorused dismay.

A fiery light entered Lyle Scott's eyes. "You saw the shooter?"

"We didn't just see him," Maddy replied. "Sam fought with him, and the man ran off!"

Astonishment gave way to wonder as Lyle Scott contemplated the guest of honor. "So now you've saved my life as well as my daughter's," he exclaimed. Setting Maddy aside, he laid his large hands on Sam's shoulders and stared deeply into his eyes. "Thank God you were here with us tonight," he added, giving Sam's shoulders a squeeze. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"Just doing what I'm trained to do," Sam muttered self-consciously.

"What happened to the shooter?" Lyle asked, dropping his hands.

Chagrin heated Sam's face. "I'm afraid he got away. Your security guards are chasing him now."

Lyle Scott paled and nodded. "I see."

The wail of several sirens penetrated the house's thick walls. Maddy ignored it, tugging on her father's sleeve until she had his attention.

"Who would want to shoot you, Daddy?" she demanded. "What's this about?"

Lyle Scott patted her hand. "Don't worry, honey. I guess it goes with the territory. Not everyone's keen on having an oil man as their next Texas senator."

"My father's running for political office," Maddy explained, glimpsing Sam's confusion.

He'd heard a rumor along those lines, and didn't it figure since only the wealthy could afford to run for public office these days?

Lyle Scott shrugged. "Thought I'd give back to the country that's given me so much," he explained.

Sam blinked at the unselfish remark. Perhaps the man wasn't as self-absorbed as Sam had assumed. "You might want to heighten your security, then, at least while you're running for office."

There came a pounding at the door and a cry of "Police!"

"I'll get that," Sam offered.

* * *

Two hours later, the search for Lyle Scott's shooter had garnered national media attention. A pair of dogs had been loosed to track the suspect, but they hadn't found him yet. Media choppers and law enforcement helicopters vied for airspace and shattered the suburban quiet, thundering late into the night. Still, no arrest was made. The shooter seemed to have evaporated into thin air, leaving first the security guards, then the local police, and then the FBI, who arrived last, all scratching their heads.

They canvassed the guests, hunting for witnesses. Sam and the first security guard proved to be the only ones who'd glimpsed the shooter's face, so they kept Sam from leaving, even after the last guest had departed. Maddy trailed him and the special agents into the back yard where he detailed his struggles with the suspect in the exact spot where he'd taken the man down. She eavesdropped unashamedly, curious to hear what Sam had to say.

"He clearly had some training in H2H," he admitted, shaking his head with confusion.

"H2H?"

"Hand to hand combat. Not many guys can get the best of me in a fight. I thought I had him, but then he used a wrestling move I'd never seen before. Plus he outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, so once he had me on my back, I had trouble getting up. When he punched my face, the ring on his right hand clocked me pretty hard."

"Are you sure you didn't let him get away?" asked the more suspicious agent.

Silence.
"Excuse me?" The cold note in Sam's voice eliminated the possibility of a conspiracy. The man had the grace to look down at the iPad he was putting his notes into.

After wringing every possible detail out of Sam, the FBI returned to the house to corner Lyle Scott in his living room. Maddy cast a worried eye at her father as he paced the Persian carpet, murmuring replies with a perplexed look on his face. No one to Maddy's memory had ever disliked her warmhearted father. It had to have shaken him deeply to find himself hated to a point where someone actually wanted him dead.

Would this attempt on his life deter him from running for the Senate? She hoped not. Given his wealth and stature, security had always been a concern, but the stakes were higher now. Surely he would just hire more security guards and stay in the race; after all, he ran in honor of his late wife, who had always encouraged his political aspirations.

Sam touched her shoulder, reclaiming her attention. "Hey, the FBI says I can leave now. You going to be all right?"

Maddy's heart fell at the prospect of his departure. The night had gone from thrilling to horrifying in the blink of an eye. What would they have done if Sam hadn't been here to scare off the shooter? She could not begin to imagine her father dead right now.

"I'll be fine," she answered automatically, "but are you sure you have to leave?" She didn't want to see the last of him, not just yet. "Why don't you stay here?" she added, taking in his bruised and swollen cheek. Exhaustion weighted his red-rimmed eyelids. "You can drive back in the morning after a good night's rest."

The long look he sent her struck her as suspicious. What had she said that could be taken the wrong way? "It's the least we can do," she added on a firmer note, "since you saved my father's life."

Hearing a lull in the conversation behind her, she called to her father, "You don't mind if Sam stays the night, do you, Daddy?"

Lyle Scott brightened visibly at the suggestion. "Of course not. He must stay. Consider yourself family, Sam" he declared.

An odd-sounding laugh rasped in Sam's throat.

"There. You heard him," she said, leaving Sam with no way to decline. "Let's get you something to eat first."

She led him to the kitchen where he wolfed down several slabs of roast beef and emptied a bottle of cold beer. Maddy popped a cheese square into her mouth as she carried trays to the sink. The cleaning staff had been sent home after the shooting and would not be back until early the next day.

"All set?" she asked when Sam put down his empty beer bottle. "Right this way," she said, leading him toward the front hall and the stairs. "I'll find you a room where you can shower and
sleep."

She
emphasized the word with a pinch of indignation. Hadn't he had his hand up her skirt and his tongue in her mouth a mere two hours earlier? Besides, too much had happened tonight for them to possibly pick up where they'd left off.

The tingling of her extremities as she led him to the second level belied her own rationalizing. Her desire for him had not waned one bit in the intervening time. If anything, he had made himself even more appealing by acting as a hero.

Casting open the door of the room next to hers, she snapped on the lights. "How's this room look?"

The queen canopy bed and marble topped armoire sent his black eyebrows winging. "This is a guest room?"

"It's one of them." She'd advised her father to purchase a modest second home as an outward sign of his commitment to the middle-class, but Lyle Scott's taste had been more extravagant than hers. "I'll find you something to sleep in," she offered, leaving the room to go raid her father's wardrobe.

Returning with an Argyle shirt and a pair of gym shorts, she found Sam standing in the center of the guest room, looking uncomfortable. "Here you go." She set the spare clothes on the bed. "There are towels in the bathroom, and there are always new toothbrushes under the sink. If there's anything else you need, just give me a holler. My room's right next door."

His wary gaze jumped to hers.

Now, why did I say that?

Backing out of the guest room, she pretended that his conjecturing stare didn't make her blood race. "Good night." Face flushed, she shut the door and retreated to her room.

Had she meant for her words to be an invitation?

Yes
. No! Her attraction for him might have been augmented by the frightening turn of events, but magic could not be recaptured so easily. Still, she left her door intentionally cracked just in case he decided to seek her out. She took a quick shower, lathered herself in body lotion, and gargled with mouthwash. Then she slipped between the sheets naked, as was her custom, and waited on pins and needles in the hopes that he would join her.

Minutes passed, then half an hour. Reality stared her in the face. She punched up her pillow. He wasn't coming.

Fine. Good. She'd be leaving for Paraguay in less than a week, with or without Sam's blessing. If he wanted to remain at odds with her, refusing to acknowledge their commonalities, that was his prerogative. Maybe the passionate words he'd uttered about her desirability were just empty words, and the passion she'd felt flowing between them was all just in her head.

Forget him,
she advised herself. She was under no obligation to make him happy by ignoring her calling, not when her mother's spirit urged her to continue her work. Even her father had proven surprisingly cooperative by finding her a job that met with his approval. Life went on, with or without Sam Sasseville's blessing.

* * *

The C-17 Globemaster III descended on the empty runway in Mariscal Estigarribia like a fat mallard, smoothly hitting the tarmac before it braked with unnecessary urgency. The Air Force pilot obviously wished to convey that he could land a Tomcat on an aircraft carrier in a hurricane, if need be. Good for him.

The transport plane screeched to a shuddering halt, flinging all thirty five SEALs sideways in their bench seats. Sam saw Master Chief Kuzinsky roll his eyes at the pilot's antics.

"All right, everybody listen up." The task unit commander, Max MacDougal, shook off his harness and stood up. Built like a double-wide refrigerator with a bristling brown mustache and small, slate-colored eyes, Mad Max reminded Sam of a bull walrus, one you didn't ever want to tangle with.

"The less attention we draw to ourselves the better. So grab your gear, head to the bus that's taking us to camp, and get onboard. No messing around."