On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1)

by Susan Vaughan

  Lost, he’d probably wandered away. Mom must be nearby. Kate scanned the crowd but saw no frantic woman, no one who stood out as panicked.

  Max pulled a pack of tissues from his shorts pocket and handed one to the boy, who wiped his eyes but not his nose. Max spoke again, a gentle smile on his face, one that softened his blunt features and softened something inside Kate’s chest. He pointed to the uniformed guard at the security desk.

  The boy studied the guard for a moment, then nodded.

  Max pushed to his feet and wheeled the luggage cart out of the boy’s way.

  When the toddler reached up, Max opened his hand, a soldier’s hand, thick with muscle and calloused. A tiny hand—likely wet with tears and baby snot—closed over two of Max’s fingers.

  Kate’s throat closed, and she had trouble swallowing. She craned her neck to see around the throng dragging bags past the security desk.

  No sooner had Max and the lost boy walked up to the desk than a heavy-set woman hustled toward them. She wheeled two suitcases, the smaller one covered in super-hero stickers. Her face was just as frantic and tear soaked as the boy’s.

  Crying out, the boy flung himself into her arms.

  After an interchange between the mother and Max, he headed toward Kate.

  At what was probably a sappy smile on her face, he said, “You saw that?”

  “Max Rivera to the rescue. Nice work.”

  Scowling, he scraped fingers through his hair. “People shouldn’t have kids if they’re not going to keep track of them.”

  Okay, that comment didn’t invite further comment from her. But the vehemence of his statement did invite curiosity. Some history there. But asking was out of the question. Definitely more to this man than brawn. And possibly shady deals.

  Stick to professional distance. Better, safer to concentrate on the expedition, on ransoming Doug, on steeling herself for that first quiver of the ground. DSF’s researcher had reported more frequent and stronger tremors. Her chest quivered as if a tremor had reached inside, and she pulled her shoulder blades together, straightening. No tears. No panic. No turning back.

  ***

  Max eyed Kate as they made their way out of the terminal. Mouth a tight line, eyes straight ahead, back stiff as a private in basic training. Terrified but determined.

  Or angry. About the delay while he helped the little guy find his mom? Nu-uh. More likely she was still ticked off about him kissing her. Damn, she had every right.

  That night, she’d seemed to accept his smartass comment brushing off his reckless lip lock. Neither of them had said a word about it since, not even on the flight here. A hard lesson he’d learned early on, females held onto a mad like a rattler on a rabbit. He was a sorry son of a bitch, and unprofessional, but apologizing more now would be lame. And might rile her worse.

  But man, he didn’t regret the kiss. She’d tasted sweeter than... hell, he didn’t know what, and he’d wanted more. Out of the question. All he could do was what she’d hired DSF for. And the extra little matter Devlin had assigned him.

  They joined other luggage-laden groups in the taxi waiting line. Shouldn’t take too long. Not a problem, except for the heat, even late at night. He peeled his sweat-damp shirt away from his back.

  A couple of bored-looking cops in navy shorts and white shirts stood nearby. Palm trees and bougainvillea lined the far side of the airport entrance beneath a star-lit sky. Vendors hawking tours and souvenirs vied for curb space with limo drivers holding passenger name signs.

  Devlin’s briefing warned that several factions wanted the valuable artifact Kate carried, but nobody made any threatening moves or looked at them, the only obvious norteamericanos. And the only guns in sight hung on the cops’ belts. A normal airport scene.

  Kate drank from a water bottle. Clutched the camera bag against her side. Maybe her silence just meant she was hot and tired.

  She liked to be in control. A little organizing ought to perk her up. “So what’s the program, boss?”

  Her eyes were blank as if jerked from her thoughts. “Um, tomorrow after we collect our supplies, we’ll meet the Maya guides. Then tomorrow night’s the gala.”

  Que desastre. He’d forgotten. Hell, he’d deliberately pushed the gala out of his mind. When Presidente Aguilar had learned a director of the National Cultural Museum would be visiting, he sent Kate an invitation to his wife’s birthday celebration.

  Their low profile was blown before they even got started. Bad omen.

  Just the thought of wearing the straitjacket in his suitcase made him queasy. “About the gala. Not a good idea, an evening in a crowd of people. Didn’t you say some of those who want Kizin would attend?”

  “Not going would be a slight to President Aguilar and might appear suspicious. I want no one to suspect I’ve brought Kizin with me.”

  Ah, the statue. He furrowed his brow and wagged his head. “You can’t carry it to the gala and I’d bet my boots you won’t leave it behind. Whole thing’s too dangerous, Kate.”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something. The hotel must have a safe.” She tilted her head and beamed him a dazzling smile. “Besides, you’ll be there as my protector. In your tuxedo.”

  Before he could come up with more reasons to pass on the damn fancy-dress party, a uniformed soldier approached them and saluted smartly.

  “Buenos noches, señor y señora.” He continued in Spanish. “Welcome to my beautiful country. General Rodolfo Lopez of the Costa Verde Military Forces has instructed me to offer his car and his hospitality.” After indicating a limousine idling beyond the taxi stand, he waited at attention.

  Kate clutched Max’s forearm. “What does he want? My phrase-book Spanish isn’t up to this.”

  As Max explained, his mind kicked out the name Lopez from the DSF file. “This guy works for General Lopez. Isn’t Lopez one of the parties interested in the jade figure?”

  She gazed with avid eyes at the long white limousine with its smoky windows and Costa Verde flags. “If he could aid in returning Kizin, it would be a coup for him as a presidential candidate in the coming election. But... a limo, with air conditioning. What harm can it do?”

  A lot, if the general was determined to have Kizin. Whether he’d return it to the temple was another question. Even baking in the tropical heat, the limo looked inviting. But risky.

  He turned to the chauffeur, who looked disconcerted at the delay. “The Cabo Grande Hotel is on the central plaza of Cabo Blanco. Do you know it?”

  The man bobbed his head. “Sí, sí, señor. But el general offers you his humble home while you are here. He promises that Señorita Fontaine will be much more comfortable at his estate than in a hotel.”

  Max pulled Kate aside. “I don’t like this set-up. Lopez wants us to stay at his place. At the very least, you’d be in his debt.” If she wouldn’t trust him on this, she wouldn’t trust him on anything. That could mean trouble down the line. Jaw muscles tight, he crossed mental fingers.

  Her gaze held calm decision. “Tell the soldier I appreciate the general’s gracious offer, but accepting his hospitality would be a slight to President Aguilar, who is my official host.”

  Max couldn’t help but grin at her diplomatic refusal. No wonder she was high up at her museum.

  When he translated her speech to the chauffeur, the man snatched off his cap and started to plead. Polite deference ratcheted up to agitated whine. The general wouldn’t be happy with Kate’s refusal of his so generous hospitality. Not Max’s concern. Kate was his concern.

  The cab line moved along and their taxi’s doors stood open and waiting. Ignoring the soldier’s protests, Max helped their driver load bags into the rusting van.

  As they drove away into the capital city, he looked behind them. The soldier waved a fist as he talked on his phone.

  ***

  Kate stared at her home away from home. Eleven o’clock at night and muggy heat wrapped around her. Sweat crawled down her back and seeped through her blouse.
She could feel her gelled and smoothed hair springing around her head with gleeful abandon.

  If the Cabo Grande Hotel was the finest establishment in Cabo Blanco, she’d hate to see the worst. Stucco painted Caribbean blue, white shutters, wrought-iron balconies, as advertised. Strictly speaking. The brochure failed to mention the peeling paint, shutters with missing slats, and balconies so rusty they couldn’t support a newborn baby.

  If the outside was this bad, what were the rooms like?

  Stay in this crumbling hotel? It couldn’t be worse than the trek into the Costa Verde jungle. Something dark and heavy settled inside her chest. She pressed a hand to her sternum.

  But no tremors so far. Maybe Kizin had settled down to help her. Wishful thinking. There would be tremors. She sucked in a shaky breath of the steamy air. Her brother would be rescued. Then she would return Kizin to K’eq Xlapak. She shifted the camera bag, weighted with the jade statue inside its secret compartment.

  “Y’all ready?” Max’s deep drawl snapped her from her reverie. He’d paid the taxi driver and lined up their luggage on the pavement. Heat didn’t seem to bother the big Texan.

  Typical of the tropics, the hotel entrance was open-air, from a covered portico into a tiled lobby—cracked tile—where two ceiling fans swiped at the heavy air. A bellman in a sweat-stained uniform shuffled toward them with a rickety luggage cart.

  She held up a hand in the universal stop gesture. “Espere un momento.”

  She hiked her purse and camera bag straps higher on her shoulder. “Max, this... establishment isn’t what I expected.”

  “The hotel?”

  “My uncle stayed here several years ago. He recommended it, but I realize the brochure was old. I should’ve guessed when the Cabo Grande had no Web site. I—we can’t stay here.”

  Max beckoned to the bellman and spoke to him in rapid Spanish.

  When the man started loading luggage again, she said, “Wait. What are you doing? We’re not staying. I’ll find another hotel. A better hotel.”

  “A better hotel? Only if you want to commute from Guatemala or Mexico, darlin’. The Cabo Grande doesn’t look like much, but it’s safe, the rooms are private, and the sheets are clean. In any other posada you might have to share a room with the owner’s livestock. I was here a few years ago for DSF. Trust me.”

  Having matters snatched from her hands added spikes to the lump in her chest. She’d researched everything but the hotel, trusting her uncle, glad to eliminate one thing from a long list. Dammit, she should’ve been more thorough. She nodded. “It seems I have no choice unless I want to be indebted to General Lopez. I’ve reserved a suite for me and a double room for you. I’ll check us in.” She turned and strode inside.

  To her right in the bar, patrons occupied tiny tables. One of them carried a massive pistol in a belt holster. Two beer-drinkers were playing chess and another man stared with rapt fascination into a tall drink with ice.

  At least they have ice. She made her way left toward the reception desk.

  “Buenas noches,” she said to the clerk. When the young woman returned her greeting, she managed enough Spanish to say she had reservations. She presented her confirmation letter but the clerk’s rapid-fire speech, which seemed full of regrets, lost her.

  The clerk pointed to a computer behind her. The screen was blank. Was everything gone?

  “Un momento, por favor.” Asking people to wait seemed to be the only Spanish Kate got to practice. Throat tight, she headed back to Max.

  He stood beside the luggage cart chatting amiably with the bellman. “Yo, Kate.”

  Familiarity no longer grated. Not after their B&E and that sizzling kiss. Hard to tell whether his usual stony detachment was for personal reasons or a necessity in security work. But at the moment, an appreciative look heated his dark eyes.

  She fanned herself with the confirmation letter. “They have rooms, but there’s some problem. The clerk doesn’t speak English and I don’t know enough Spanish to understand her.”

  “I’m on it.” His mouth curved in a charming grin as he greeted the young clerk.

  Kate tried to follow but after three ping-pong exchanges of Spanish, gave up. The conversation took long enough to cover all the ills of the world. She stood beneath one of the ceiling fans but its movement created no detectable breeze. The heat seemed to be expanding, melting her clothes to her body.

  The clerk leafed through a worn black registration book. She fluffed her hair and smiled at Max.

  He smiled back and gave her a wink.

  Kate pursed her lips. She sighed. The heat and the long flight were testing her patience. When Max turned back to her, she touched his forearm. “What were you saying? What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. Your address is lost in the dead computer so they couldn’t notify you they had no suites. But they have rooms. Second floor.” He held up two room keys.

  “Thank you.” She exhaled and accepted a key.

  Tension drained from her spine as they headed for the wide tiled stairs. At least the room issue was settled. Not knowing the language was only part of the problem. Arranging things herself usually meant plans worked out as she expected. In the States, she’d thought she had everything arranged, but here in Cabo Blanco, she was facing Max’s unexpected at every turn. She clutched her camera bag with its precious cargo. If her brother’s life wasn’t at stake, she’d be on the next plane back to D.C.

  At the landing, she glanced back. The man from the bar, the man with the pistol, stood in the lobby. His little black eyes, hard like snaps, focused on her.

  Chapter Seven

  K’eq Xlapak

  Professor Esteban Morales crossed the dusty central plaza to the steep pyramid temple, where his assistant Héctor and three crew members were working.

  Only nine in the morning and already the heat beat down, shimmering in the humid air like spirits of the Maya who’d built this ancient city. He pulled his hat lower over his forehead as his satellite phone rang. Ah, exactly the person he’d hoped for.

  He stepped into the leafy shade of an acacia tree. “Ah, Señorita Fontaine, it is so good to hear from you.”

  “Hola, Professor Morales,” came the voice, faint but clear enough. “My guide and I arrived in Cabo Blanco last night. The statue is safe.”

  “Gracias a Dios for that. I trust you had a comfortable flight.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” Her words came quick and staccato. She had every right to be anxious. “This morning I’ll collect the tents and other equipment I had shipped. We should be ready to leave tomorrow or the next day.”

  Then a hike of several days. Eleven, even ten days was plenty of time. This morning’s tremor was barely a wake-up call. But hope was a fool’s messenger. The stresses along the fault lines were not easing. His shoulders drooped. “We will be prepared to welcome you.”

  “And the Maya guides?”

  “Ah, sí, sí. Arturo and Constantino are in the city now. I shall send word to them through their employer at the pottery factory.”

  “They are not professional guides?”

  “Few of these Maya speak enough Spanish or English for professional work. These are men designated by the Jaguar priest. They know the jungle well. You will be in good hands.”

  She was silent for a moment before agreeing, and they arranged a meeting at the hotel.

  Morales ended the call and hustled toward the workers, feeling as nervous as Kate Fontaine sounded. How quickly was work progressing? This area must be restored enough for the return of Kizin. What happened with the pending earthquake he couldn’t predict, but another outcome was certain. If the priest was displeased, he would shut down the restoration.

  A dozen or more hieroglyphic stone pillars called stelae had once stood near the temple’s entrance, stone guardians carved with images and symbols and painted bright colors. Erosion and quakes had toppled the individual blocks making up each stela. Héctor and the other workers knelt among the stones label
ing and measuring.

  Some glyphs could still be read. Some blocks lay in pieces, but others remained square. Enough, he hoped, to reconstruct a few more stelae.

  As he approached, Héctor beckoned to him. “Profesor Morales, you must see.” He set down the digital camera and indicated the top side of a numbered block. The others—a man and two women—lay down their trowels and measuring tapes and sat back on their haunches.

  Morales peered at the image carved into the stone. For a better look, he stuck his glasses on his nose and lowered himself to a crouch. Definitely a feathered headdress. His heart raced. He pushed to his feet, a creaky process after so many years at this work. The years had added gray to his head and arthritis to his knees, but had not diminished his thrill at recovering pieces of his country’s history.

  He removed his glasses and grinned at the crew ranged around the stones. “The headdress is faint but there. This was a royal personage. Well done, amigos.”

  Héctor returned his grin, obviously pleased at the find. “We have five blocks ready to raise.” He gestured toward the temple entrance. “We can put another together if we move some blocks.”

  Morales mopped his forehead with his bandana. “No, each block, each stela must be measured, labeled, and photographed before any is moved. Hurry but follow procedure.” He smiled. “Fabiola will have my head if anything is missed.”

  Héctor laughed, clearly aware of the project illustrator’s temper. “Sí, Profesor. We will do our best.” His gaze drifted behind his boss. “You have visitors from the village, the priests.”

  Morales turned and walked toward the two men, stopping in the shade cast by the temple. Birds called and monkeys chattered in the nearby acacias. Behind him the stela crew returned to their work, their voices a low murmur.

  The priests wore striped sashes as belts on their black trousers and matching bandanas on their heads. Ceremonial dress. An official visit. Morales straightened his shoulders and removed his cap. At least he had good news for them.