Danger Close

by Marliss Melton

  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-wi
de 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."

  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 muc
h.

  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."