Intimate Danger Page 5

  The blast took no less than seven Interpol agents.

  Someone had seen them coming.

  Behind him, hidden before now, the remaining agents were for a moment stunned, then bolted to action. Radios howled with the call for doctors, for the coroner. But they knew the men were dead, that they’d failed.

  No one was getting out alive.

  Flames ate at the storage house, walls buckled and fell.

  Choufani sank to the ground, his arms on his knees, his head in his hands.

  Now we will never know.

  Guaranguillo, Ecuador

  Mike didn’t try verbal communication. While his Spanish was decent, his handle on the local Quechua dialect stank. The villagers forgave him, but communication was a lot of hand signals and half phrases. The villagers were meagerly dressed, but infinitely kind. Dark haired children sat on the ground outside homes and ate passion fruit, offering him a piece as he passed. He took it, knowing they’d share with a stranger when they had little. Women tossed out washwater as a few men headed into the coffee fields to the north, though Mike was pretty sure they weren’t growing java.

  He paid for a warm soda from a tiny old woman sitting outside her home, beside her a rack of snacks that looked like they’d been around since the eighties. Popping the top, he drank it straight down in one shot and pitched the crushed can in a box near the woman. She offered him another and he smiled, overpaid, and tucked it in his pack. He strolled down the center of the village, an uneven dirt road no more than twenty feet wide. Buildings constructed of wood and corrugated metal sheets were sandwiched up alongside each other so tightly that if one fell, the others would go. His gaze moved back and forth, picking up details like the spent shells near a door, the black stain of blood on the wood frame. There was no shortage of guns. The men wore them openly.

  Mike kept his concealed. No use in antagonizing the locals. But with no GPS beacon, and satellite photos murky because of the dense jungle, locating the UAV wouldn’t be simple. The chopper had crashed before reaching the last UAV location. A chopper without working avionics could drift for miles for a safe landing or drop out of the sky like a rock. Considering they had tape of the last radio contact, he assumed the former, and that his men were still alive.

  He had priority orders. Jansen had done the assessing, and though Mike didn’t like it, he knew the colonel was right. UAV and Hellfire missiles, possibly Scuds, then bring the team home. In that order.

  At least there wasn’t a little black box for anyone to find.

  Mike sat on a rough bench near a welding shop and unlaced his boot. He kept his head bent, his gaze slipping over the village. He recognized the sudden tension in the air, most of it from a young boy about ten curled in the doorway of a house, barefoot and dirty. His big eyes watched him as he shook pebbles from his boot. Unlike the child in Farawa Island, this one was unarmed and scared. But if he were pointing a gun, could you kill him? The enemy has many faces, he thought, quickly lacing his boot.

  Then Mike followed the kid’s gaze back the way he’d come. The street was suddenly empty. His gaze flashed to the homes, a couple of people he could see. They peered from behind curtains, taking cover in fragile homes. Then he heard the rowdy voices before he saw a man stumble from behind his shelter and run.

  Mike didn’t need to be in the middle of a local firefight, and standing, he adjusted the rucksack on his shoulders before he headed out of the village in a casual stroll. The thick jungle closed around him, blocking sunlight, and cooler temperatures created a thick rolling mist over the forest floor. The beauty of it escaped him, his steps slower because he couldn’t see the ground well. He’d like to hack through it with his machete, but not enough to give away his position.

  He was about thirty yards into the forest when the first shot came.

  He went still and let his head drop forward. You’re not the police, you have a job. Yet Mike was heading back when he heard someone running toward him.

  A few yards east of him, the kid shot through the forest like a baby gazelle, jumping over forest debris and shifting left and right. The boy would never outrun whoever was behind him, and Mike caught up with him, snatching the child off the ground and covering his mouth with his hand as he backed into a darkened area off the path. The child squirmed and Mike kept him tight in his arms, smothering a grunt when teeth sank into his palm.

  He forced the boy to look him in the eye, and gave him a stare he reserved for terrorists. For a second, he thought the kid would wet his pants. The boy nodded, relaxed, and Mike released his hand. The boy opened his mouth to speak and Mike covered it.

  “Not a word,” he warned in Spanish.

  He released him and the skinny child folded to the ground. Mike motioned him to hide behind him in a burrow of vines, and the kid quickly obeyed. Mike slid forward, his gun drawn as he watched the young men strut through the woods. They were overconfident, laughing about scaring the villagers, and while Mike wanted to teach them a lesson about being bullies, he couldn’t afford the attention so early in the game. The trio moved deeper into the valley and he let them pass, then motioned to the boy.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Pablo.” He crawled out of his vined hideout.

  “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t offer his name.

  “They were looking for you, senor.”

  Highly unlikely, Mike thought. “Who are they?”

  “Smugglers. Drugs, weapons, sometimes just food. We never know. They only come through looking for strangers.”

  Okay, that he’d buy. Clear out the untrustworthy, threaten the locals, and you’ve got the bases covered since it was unlikely the police would come this far to the border.

  “They go to the river,” Pablo said.

  “Show me.” Mike followed the boy, watching his back, and the kid brought him near a stream. With a finger to his lips, Pablo smiled devilishly, then spied through the underbrush. There were crates stacked in two flat-bottom boats floating in the water. No one else.

  The bullies were taking their time getting here.

  “They wait till they are alone before coming to the water,” the child whispered.

  Then Mike heard voices and footsteps and drew the boy back as the trio of young men appeared from the east, and immediately started unloading the large wood boxes, rocking the boats. Hell. The men were only about forty yards away from their positions.

  Drug or small arms transport, he figured, but why here? Without checking his GPS, Mike figured he was sitting on the border and there were easier ways to get round here. A jeep for one. Ecuador’s military patrolled here because the nearest checkpoint for a border crossing was about forty miles behind him, and while this stream fed into the many tributaries snaking through Ecuador and Peru, it was nearly a hundred miles to the mouth of the Amazon. A boat would run into hazards till deep water. Of course, once they were on that river, it could take them anywhere in South America, but on foot in any direction put them right at the base of Andean mountains. The roughest terrain on the planet, Mike remembered.

  For a moment, he considered capturing the three for a little interrogation, but nixed it. His priority was the UAV and the Hellfires, but if the UAV didn’t crash in Ecuador, then it drifted into Peru. How far? was the question. He could use a couple of squads of Marines, because the chopper crash was reported at sixty miles farther south in the Andean valley. But so far, his intel sucked canal water.

  He focused on the men when one, a hothead, tried telling the others what to do. They weren’t having it. A mutiny.

  The kid gripped his arm, watching. Mike glanced down at the tiny hand, then shifted and caught bits of the argument. They’d stolen the crates from a local drug lord. Not a smart idea. Cartels were misers and wanted all their profits in their pockets.

  Arguing heatedly, they lost their hold on the crate and it hit the ground. The lid cracked, and for a moment they all just stared at the spilled contents, then started accusing the others of stealing
whatever they thought was inside. Mike almost laughed.

  It was a bunch of blocks. The men stomped around, swearing, kicking at the dirt and the contents. Then Mike heard tourist souvenirs. Always check the cargo first, pals. Two were screaming at each other when the tallest man’s chest exploded, taking his lungs out his back. Mike pushed Pablo down and aimed in the direction of the shot. He couldn’t see a thing. A second later, another shot came, knocking the second guy backward off his feet, a clean hole in his forehead even before the report echoed. Mike was admiring the precision hit as the third jumped into the boat, paddling furiously, and for a second it looked like he’d get away. The jungle hovered over the stream, darkening it in spots, shielding the young man.

  The shot cracked, the report a couple of seconds later.

  He was about six hundred yards away, Mike thought, in the hills. No noise suppressor, but a scope. That meant the shooter didn’t care who saw him.

  He felt a hand on his leg and looked down. He’d almost forgotten about the boy. Mike motioned Pablo toward the village as he eased back, careful not to disturb the bushes and give the sniper another reason to shoot.

  “Pablo, did you see a small plane crash here?”

  The boy frowned. “No, they fly over the fields sometimes, but no, senor. No crash.”

  How’d it get so off course and why didn’t satellite imagery pick it up?

  Mike delivered the boy to his worried mother, who grabbed Pablo’s ear and berated him for not staying with her. The child looked almost grateful at the ass-chewing.

  Turning away, Mike walked south, thinking he wasn’t going to trek all over Ecuador and Peru for the UAV. Someone at Langley had dropped the ball. He didn’t have squat and he needed accurate intel. If Langley couldn’t get it, he’d have to do it himself.

  Pablo chased him, grabbing his sleeve. “You leave, senor?” Pablo sounded so young and fragile right then.

  “Yes. If anyone like those guys show up, stay with your mother.” The kid had seen too much, and if anyone knew, he’d be dead very quickly.

  “No, senor, you leave without the American?”

  Mike stopped, turned sharply. Jesus. “What American?”

  Four

  A rat clung to the wall, looking back over his shoulder as if he were running from a predator.

  “Go on, it’s a nice fat bug, you’ve worked hard for it, eating your way through…” Clancy’s gaze flicked to the hole in the wall. “Whatever.” She looked at the creature. He was already done and moving on. How rude, she thought, then chuckled to herself.

  American jails were so much nicer. At least they gave you food, water, and a cot. Inside here was nothing but a smelly bucket.

  “Oh, this is so cool,” she said, but just didn’t quite make the tone she’d hoped for. That one that gives you the rush of adrenaline that tells you you can achieve it. “Alas, poor Clancy, I knew her well.”

  God. I’m getting squirrelly.

  She blamed it on whatever they gave her to put her out. For hours or days, she wasn’t sure. All she recalled was the long-haired guy ordering her thrown in the vehicle before everything went black.

  She tipped her head back and noticed the rat was gone. “Eat and run, I get it. I’m not good company right now.”

  The door rattled like dungeon chains and she braced herself for another round of “Hey, chica, you wanna do me?” A soldier appeared. At least she thought he was a soldier. Her military training only saw the wrinkled uniform, the abundance of facial hair, and the lack of soap anywhere near him.

  “Who are you talking to?” he said, his face against the bars.

  Was it her that smelled that bad, or him? “Water. Got any?”

  “I got something for you.” He grabbed his crotch.

  Oh, like that’s new? “Mouth is too big.” She pursed her lips tightly.

  He looked ready to kill her, then laughed like Boris. But right now, she’d strip for a Diet Coke. Two days in here was enough for anyone.

  He tossed her a small plastic bottle and she jumped at it, drinking greedily. He found her so oddly amusing that he started telling the story before he left the cell block.

  Cell block. Mom would be just so proud. Bless her heart, she can’t help that she’s stupid, but she just shoulda stayed home. She’d only wanted information. Something to help her find the troops. She’d had to be cagey about it too. The team were Spec Ops guys, and she didn’t want to give away whatever they were doing here, but after getting out of the country on a cruise ship and all the way here through Central America, she’d gotten bold.

  Bold enough to hire a shitty guide.

  The taller policeman had taken her away, tossed her in this cell, and left her here for two days in the sweltering heat. He had her one suitcase and hobo bag, and worse, the Terminator. He could keep the rest, but that she needed.

  She gripped her head. I’m so screwed. No one knew she was here. All that sage advice from her dad, “Clancy, honey, look before your leap and look hard,” went right out of her head. She’d walked right into the danger without considering the consequences.

  What did she really think she could do? Look for skilled Marines who didn’t want to be found? Once she found them, would they be so jazzed on the effects of the pods that they’d ignore her warnings? Would they even believe her? They’d volunteered for this; surely Yates had informed them of the risks.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to her. Guinea pigs.

  The military were used all the time to test new drugs. It wasn’t common knowledge; the government had hid it for years but it had happened. Every time they forced her to have a flu shot, she got sick and not with the flu.

  Her head shot up when she heard footsteps, and she pushed off the concrete floor. She adjusted her clothing, brushed off the dirt. She had to get out of here. Calling the embassy or consulate wasn’t really an option. These guys didn’t have phones. Only radios. Not that anyone from the embassy would come for her when she’d arrived under a slightly false passport. She felt the real one sticking to her skin down the back of her pants where she’d stashed it. The Grace Murray one was out there with her money. The copies of the Marines’ files—what little she could get at the time—were folded and in a plastic baggie inside her boots. The packet made her feet sweat.

  A man, Richora, appeared from the small hallway and unlocked the cell. He grabbed her hands and slapped on bright silver handcuffs, then motioned her ahead. Clancy moved past him, thinking someone probably just bought her for the whopping sum of fifty pesos. Two men had come to look her over last night. They hadn’t said a word, just looked at her in that creepy lip-smacking, “I’m gonna have fun with you” leer.

  Richora gripped her arm, pushing her forward.

  She yanked free. “I can walk, ya know.”

  “Basta ya,” he snapped, keeping hold of her elbow as he ushered her through the police station. It was an old house, really old. Water-stained walls and ceilings, worn desks, and a bulletin board with yellowed wanted posters near a drinking fountain that was stained with rust said just how old. There was so much dirt on the wood floors that it kicked up as she walked. Clancy stretched her neck to see out the windows. It had been nighttime when they dragged her in, but all she saw now was a cracked fountain in the courtyard, overgrown grasses, and great, a stone wall surrounding it. The green land beyond practically made her mouth water.

  Richora forced her into a room, and she wasn’t prepared when he pulled out a chair, told her to sit, then took out a small pad of paper. They were actually going to ask her for the truth? When they’d left her in jail for two days?

  “What are you doing in my country?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “How did you know those men? The Sendero Luminoso.”

  Oh God. The Shining Path? “They’re disbanded.”

  “Is that what they tell you in your America? That we have conquered them?” He shook his head. “No, they merely hide better than before, senorita.”

&n
bsp; “Not really,” she said. “I found them easy enough.”

  “You are a woman. They wanted your body more than your mind.”

  “At least I have both.”

  His scowl darkened, winging his brows low over his dark eyes. “It would be wise to be polite to me.”

  Perhaps, but she didn’t think good behavior meant anything in a place like this. “Are you charging me with something?” Was he a real cop or just pretending, going through the motions? Then she remembered he’d killed Fuad in cold blood.

  “We are collecting evidence.”

  “Like what? I was forced from my jeep and you raided it two minutes later. What do you think I know? Or saw?” Nothing, she thought, all this got her nothing.

  “Why do you insist on lying?”

  “Why are you being an asshole?”

  He laid his hand on the table, and when it came away, Clancy saw the Terminator, a gizmo she’d created to destroy the pods without destroying the brain. She lifted her gaze.

  “Explain it.”

  “It’s an MP3 player.”

  He nudged it toward her. “Prove it.”

  The cuffs scraped the desk as she picked it up and turned it on its back. The slim pale gray device was shaped like the nanopod, an oval, almost teardrop, yet flatter. It did a lot of things, but it didn’t play music.

  She turned it on. The miniscreen flashed open and it asked a series of questions. Then the key for the high-frequency pulse radiated at a decimal level no human or animal could hear. It would do nothing to them, only the technology, and she had to be touching the troops to use it.