Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) (8 page)

The locals weren't supposed to know that the military men were SEALs on a mission dubbed Operation Anaconda. Under the guise of training the Paraguayan Special Forces stationed in this area, they had come to defend the American-owned oil wells from terrorists training in the region. Sam hadn't asked which oil company
owned
the wells. He was afraid he'd find out that Scott Oil Corporation truly had the U.S. Navy at its beck and call.

Not that Lyle Scott was Scott Oil's CEO anymore, he remembered. In order to run for the Senate, he'd relinquished control to the company's vice-president to avoid any conflict of interest. As a senator, he would probably have more influence than ever, but it wasn't Sam's job to question the ways of politics. His job was to stop terrorists from using South America as a staging platform—period, the end.

With that reminder, he thrust thoughts of Maddy and her father out of his head for the umpteenth time that day.

Mad Max swiveled toward his second-in-command. "Anything to add, Master Chief?"

Rusty Kuzinsky had seen more combat than any active-duty SEAL of Sam's acquaintance. His dark auburn head barely cleared the CO's chin, but his reputation made him a giant in the Teams.

Dark brown, nearly black eyes raked the faces of the younger men. "We'll be staying in an old Army installation where you'll be surrounded by civilians, not one of whom needs to know of our agenda. So watch what you say and who's around you when you say it. Am I clear on that?"

"Hooyah, Master Chief," the two platoons roared.

"Move out," Mad Max ordered.

Sam headed up Echo Platoon, but with two experienced petty officers, Bronco and Bullfrog, all it took was a nod at them to get all sixteen of his men moving. Between Echo and Charlie Platoons, thirty-two SEALs comprised the task unit, commanded by an HQ element of three seasoned leaders: Mad Max, Master Chief Kuzinsky, and Lt. Luther Lindstrom, the ops officer.

With leadership like theirs, Operation Anaconda posed a formidable threat to terrorists plotting to undermine American interests.

Walking out the back of the plane onto a sizzling tarmac, Sam scanned the arid terrain of El Chaco Boreal, Paraguay. The desert-like breeze wafting through the light canvas of his desert BDUs made him think of the soft exhalation of Maddy's breath.

Christ, would you forget about her already?
But regret wrung his heart at not giving her a proper good-bye. The next morning after the party, he had sneaked out of her home before either she or her father had risen from their beds, mostly because he'd had no earthly idea what to say to her.

He thought her amazing, but crazy. Frankly, she scared the pants off him.

Bottom line was he didn't trust her father
or
her
not to have ulterior motives. He couldn't shake the suspicion that Lyle Scott had deliberately thrown him and Maddy together by inviting Sam to his party and naming him the guest of honor.

Might the future senator be angling to have a SEAL for a son-in-law?

It hardly mattered now. Sam had washed his hands of the Scotts the morning that he'd left McLean. If only he could banish Maddy from his thoughts as easily, he'd be in great shape.

Snagging his duffle bag out of the pile being tossed from the plane, he waited for his men to find their rucksacks before leading them to the waiting bus.

It wasn't until all thirty-five SEALs were jammed inside and lumbering down the airfield that Sam's nape prickled. Whose idea was it to pack them into one vehicle, anyway? If the terrorists had any advance knowledge of their arrival, a single rocket propelled grenade could take them all out in one fell swoop. Obviously, the Paraguayan attaché who'd organized their transport hadn't counted on word of their arrival getting out.

Crowded with bodies, the temperature in the bus immediately rose.

"Open the windows," Mad Max ordered as they swung onto a road in use by several cars.

The modest city of Mariscal Estigarribia sprang into view about two miles up the road. Home to a mere fifteen hundred people, it was little more than a hodgepodge of cinderblock structures all clustered around the walls of an old military facility. The color scheme of the simple buildings reminded Sam of South Florida—the walls were pastel pinks and blues, the roofs topped with red ceramic tiles.

He was lowering the window next to him when the sound of a vehicle gaining on the bus summoned his defensive instincts. Several other SEALs heard it, too, swiveling their heads to ascertain whether the speeding car might be a threat. An olive-colored Jeep barreled up the lane next to theirs, determined to pass on the wrong side. Through the lowered driver's window, Sam caught sight of honey colored hair streaming out of the window. A slender arm and a familiar profile came into view next.

It couldn't be
.

He would never in a thousand years have envisioned running into Maddy Scott in the wilds of South America. A wave of disbelief accompanied by an equally powerful wave of attraction washed over him as she leaned forward to punch on her radio. Sam's clear view of her face corroborated his sighting. Ignoring the busload of men straining their necks to stare at her, she sped past. Bronco went from whistling his appreciation to gaping in astonishment.

"What the hell?" He craned his neck to look at Sam. "Sir! Was that who I think it was?" he shouted.

Sam flinched and flicked a wary glance at Kuzinsky's auburn head. The master chief just emphasized the secret nature of their operation. He wouldn't appreciate Sam knowing someone in the area who might blow their anonymity if she caught sight of him.

Christ, what were the odds that she and the SEALs would both be working in the same remote region called El Chaco Boreal, one of the last untainted grasslands left in the world?

Luckily for Sam, Bullfrog and Haiku, who were sitting on the other side of the bus, hadn't seen her. "Negative," Sam growled, shooting Bronco a quelling look.

He prayed Kuzinsky hadn't overheard Bronco's question. But then nothing escaped the Master Chief's attention—nothing. Not that Kuzinsky had anything to worry about. Sam wasn't going anywhere close to Maddy—oh, hell, no. Seeing her here only solidified his mental image of Lyle Scott as a grand puppet master. If her father had found her this job then he must have somehow known where the SEALs were headed next, and he'd intended to throw them together.

The SEALs' destination was supposed to be a closely guarded secret. So, not only did the former oil magnate have connections way up the food chain, but he also likely had an agenda known only to him. Or was Maddy in on it, too?

Sam scowled.
Doesn't matter either way
.
I'm not going anywhere near her.

* * *

Maddy averted her gaze from the bus crammed with American servicemen. Men in uniform made her think of Sam, and she was determined to forget about him. But how could she, when the memory of his kiss still seared her senses like the hot breeze wafting through the window?

Resentment over his unexplained departure from McLean helped to temper her unrequited longing. What had she done or said to make him leave her home early the next morning without so much as a good-bye note? She'd thought they'd forged a connection of some kind. Apparently, not. The sooner she accepted his rejection and moved on, the more she might enjoy her new job in Paraguay.

She had her work cut out for her today. Recalling the challenge ahead of her, Maddy swallowed hard. In the short time she'd been here, she had yet to perform her duties for GEF on her own. It was her colleague Ricardo who drove the Jeep on the treacherous roads to the areas where they collected soil and water samples. Ricardo also carried a pistol on his hip and he knew how to use it, as evidenced by the day he'd shot and killed a poisonous snake about to spring at Maddy's calf. With Ricardo at her side, she'd felt no qualms about striking out into the semi-arid wilderness.

Without him? Not so much.

But today Ricardo's wife was having a baby. Insisting that he remain at the hospital to witness the birth, Maddy volunteered to do the day's work by herself. He'd tried to talk her out of it, but she'd reminded him of the report due on Friday. With a heavy sigh, he'd handed her the keys to the Jeep and begged her to be careful.

It wasn't until Maddy started driving to the lab that doubts began to percolate. Negotiating the near-impassable and unmarked roads to the remote locations where they gathered samples could be baffling, even with GPS. El Chaco Boreal was the dead last place a young blonde female ought to venture on her own, which was why she donned a grass cowboy hat whenever she worked in the field. The porous border area between Paraguay, Bolivia, and Argentina offered a haven to drug-traffickers, smugglers, and counterfeiters. There were even rumors of Hezbollah extremists training in the area.

Stay out of the hotspots.
The memory of Sam's warning made Maddy cringe. It also inspired that same perverse impulse to defy him. Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she roared up the
Ruta Transchaco,
raising the volume on her radio and letting her long hair whip in the wind.

Her mother would have applauded Maddy's work with GEF. Her father stood behind her efforts, for once. Nothing bad was going to happen.

Chapter 4

The 1930's era military installation turned out to be an impressive collection of all-brick buildings encircled by a high wall and boasting large rooms with flaking paint on the walls and unreliable plumbing.

After the SEALs were freed to settle into their barracks, Sam divided his platoon into groups of four, selecting the same three men who'd accompanied him to Matamoros as his roommates. He then picked out the largest room at the head of a long corridor where he claimed the bottom bunk on the right for himself. Testing the hard mattress, he stretched out and tried to ignore Bronco's pointed stare.

"I know that was her, sir," Bronco finally insisted, tossing his rucksack on the bunk over Sam's head. "I'd recognize her anywhere."

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?"