Cassidy willed herself still. The tight control of her temper radiated down her body and released itself through a series of frustrated foot tapping hidden beneath the table. “False accusations? Mr. Cole, I’m not an idiot. You only have to look beyond the shoreline to find the problems.” When he merely quirked a brow, she turned toward her boss. “May we speak in private?”
Dr. Sharpe pursed his lips and glanced at Cole. “Mr. Cole, do you mind?”
He shrugged and offered Cassidy a tight, cold smile before turning toward the video screen. “Get your employee under control, Drew, or you won’t like the consequences.”
Cassidy grinned when she recognized the don’t-mess-with-me glare emanating from Dr. Sharpe’s face. “Threats don’t work, Robert.” He glanced down at a stack of paper and with swift precise movements spread the pages out on the table. “Leave the room, please. I need to confer with Dr. Lowell.”
Robert Cole tipped his head down in a stiff nod and signaled for the computer technician to follow him out of the small conference room. “I’ll be in touch, Drew.”
Dr. Sharpe smiled and stared at Cassidy. “Well?” He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table.
She sucked in stale air through her teeth and swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “Sir, there is no possible way I can complete this contract per the terms of the original agreement. I’ve tried to explain this to Mr. Cole, but he’s adamant that we respond with positive results.” Cassidy sat on the edge of her chair, the worn fabric no longer a cushion against the sharp metal that dug into the back of her thighs. She folded her hands and concentrated on not fidgeting.
“I’ve glanced at this report you faxed over. Can you not twist any of these details into a better light?”
Cassidy felt her mouth drop open, and she snapped her jaw back up. Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she bit on her lower lip. “Okay. Let’s see—by creating gas flares that burn 24/7, New World Petroleum has provided a constant hot plateau for baking bread and drying clothes. The natives are extremely grateful. However, one must not get too close or else one burns to death.”
Steel blue eyes hardened and no longer offered the comfort she’d sought in the beginning of the meeting. Sharpe pointed a finger at her and spoke harshly. “Cassidy, stop being sarcastic.”
She refused to bow to the intimidation flowing across the satellite link and plowed on. “Or how about, New World Petroleum has demolished all the pesky mangroves and provided new roadways. We’ll leave out the part where the mangroves provide erosion control and a livelihood for the locals. Roads are much more exciting.” She smacked her palm on the top of the table and pointed back at Sharpe. “How’s that?”
“Your zeal is appreciated but unacceptable.”
She met her boss’s gaze. His mouth was tight, and a thin white line surrounded lips that were twisted down in anger. “What?” Cassidy felt the heat of her own anger burn her cheeks. She cursed silently, wishing for the geological survey Charles promised. It held concrete evidence to the downfall of this region.
“Can you, for once, think outside the box?”
She began to tell him exactly where to stick his damn report, but she glanced out the window instead, allowing the sun to smooth back her irritation. “The reason you hired me was because I consistently think outside the box. Drew, you trained me. I’m the best zoologist on staff. How can you expect me to see any positive in this ecological nightmare? I can’t find any trace of the pygmy hippo or close to a dozen additional species that previously inhabited this region.” She stared at the screen, not really wanting to see the expression on Sharpe’s face. He was her mentor. A man she admired above all others.
Dr. Drew Sharpe, the life force and creator of the Zoological Environmental Bio Research Agency, more commonly referred to by its acronym “ZEBRA,” was a man whose mere presence commanded undivided attention. His unwavering dark eyes and angular features, his clipped New England accent, and his bearing reinforced a military background that didn’t tolerate insubordination. His left eye twitched, and a shadow of ink-blue veins protruded from his neck at her defiance. She’d crossed the line into enemy territory.
Cassidy refused to believe he was asking her to lie.
She held her breath and waited. After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Sharpe nodded and pushed the stack of papers on the table away and out of her line of vision. “You have ten days to wrap up whatever loose ends remain, and then an extraction team will bring you home.”
Her heart flipped out of her chest and dropped to the floor. She couldn’t breathe. “What?”
“You’re needed back at corporate.”
A high-pitched buzz rang in her ears, and she shook her head to clear the panic that numbed every corner of her being. “Excuse me?”
“Cassidy, your field time has stretched beyond acceptable limits.”
Inhaling a deep breath, Cassidy smiled. “Very funny.” Dr. Sharpe stared at her, and she felt every ounce of confidence crack and fall away. “You’re serious?”
“Quite.”
“But I haven’t even begun to determine the long-term ramifications nor started on any resolutions for the oil conglomerates. There’s months of work here to be completed. Years, maybe. The multitude of species within this region have barely been recorded. Drew, please, this place will be dead unless someone fights for it.” Cassidy opened her palms and tilted her head to the left. “Please.”
His lip curled in a sad smile, and Drew closed his eyes for a second. When they opened, they were void of emotion. “It’s no longer your concern, Cassidy. I’ll see you at debriefing on …” he dragged over his calendar, “the Friday after next.”
Cassidy stared, too shocked to say anything. He offered her one last parting smile and then hit the disconnect button. The room dimmed. She sat there, ears ringing and body numb. Her eyes burned from more than the thin stream of cool air flowing through the vents. Unshed tears pricked and demanded release.
She fisted her hand and slammed it on the table. The pain shooting up her arm from the contact didn’t even register a one on the Cassidy-pissed-off scale. “Damn.” A long blond curl fell against her cheek. Pushing it off her face, she yanked her pony tail holder from her head, twisted the stray strand in with the rest of her mass of disorganized curls, and refastened her hair. “Damn! Damn!”
The door cracked open and Cole peered into the room. “Problem?”
She glanced at the smug expression twisting the president of NWP’s mouth into a fake smile and bit her tongue before she stuck it out and blew a raspberry at him. “No, sir. Is the boat ready to take me back to shore?”
Principe, West Africa (an island south of the Niger Delta)
Jake Anderson wiggled his toes. He stared beyond the edge of his worn rope hammock and watched in fascination as a school of flying fish burst from the crest of the frothy white wave, flicking their fins rapidly and sailing through the air as graceful as birds. The fish dove back into the aqua waters of the South Atlantic and disappeared from sight. A gentle breeze ruffled the spiky leaves of the palm tree he’d tied his hammock around, causing a soft rustling noise.
Closing his eyes, Jake allowed the crashing waves and cries of the sea birds to lull him into a semi-trance. The ocean smelled offish and brine that pulled him back through time with the ebb and flow of the tide. Memories of his sun-drenched youth collided with those of his intense Special Forces training, leaving behind an odd emotion of satisfaction and regret. Water. Time. It all boiled together as the sun beat upon his face.
It took Jake a few seconds to distinguish the high-pitched peal of his cellular from the raucous noise of the tropics. Sighing, he shifted in the hammock and retrieved a thin-lined silver phone. He pushed a lock of black hair off his forehead and listened to the voice on the other end. Jake rocked himself out of the rope bed, jumping to his feet in one graceful motion honed from years of tactical training. “You are the man, Walter! I’ll be there before the
beer warms.”
Whistling a Willie Nelson tune, he pulled an olive green T-shirt over his head and tucked it into the waistband of his khaki shorts. Jake gathered the rest of his belongings—flip-flops, sunglasses, sunblock, and an empty water bottle—then jogged toward a black and white striped pickup truck parked beyond the sandy beach.
Opening the truck door, he smacked the palm of his hand against the faded ZEBRA logo emblazoned upon its door. A bright colored globe with a black slashed “Z” across the top symbolized an organization Jake was damn proud to be a part of. He climbed behind the wheel and sped onto the narrow road, climbing upward toward the highest level of the small, tropical island.
A cluster of metal buildings framed by heavy canvas tents came into view. A kaleidoscope of personnel dressed in an assortment of clothing, from lab coats to hiking gear, moved around the camp, intent on their individual assignments. Reaching a rectangular building with the ZEBRA logo painted against the rusty brown backdrop of its corrugated tin sides, Jake slammed the brake on and shot out of the truck.
He waved absently at a few men gathered to the left of the cantina. They appeared relaxed and comfortable, but Jake’s expert eye spotted their concealed weapons and wary eye. He nodded his approval and ran into the metal building before him. Jake halted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the interior. This was his inner sanctum—a state-of-the-art laboratory designed in Atlanta and flown piece by piece to West Africa.
A small man wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses greeted Jake by handing over an ice-cold beer and clapping his hand on Jake’s back. “Thanks for coming so quick.”
Jake slugged back half the bottle and wiped his mouth in appreciation. “Whatcha got, Walt?”
His lab assistant pulled him toward the center of the room where a large computer screen dominated a narrow metal conference table. “That orchid you brought back the other day?”
Jake ran a finger along a pencil sketch of the flower that rested on top of a pile of papers. “This one?”
“Yeah.” Walter sat down before the computer screen and typed in several commands.
Jake sat beside him, stretching his legs out and propping them on the table. He pulled another yeasty mouthful of beer from the bottle and sighed in appreciation as the cool liquid slid down his throat. “What about it?”
Walter raised his eyebrows and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of this nose. “It’s not listed.” His hair and mustache were painted with silver, and there was no mistaking the intelligence sparkling in the lab assistant’s eyes.
Jake placed his beer on the tabletop and grinned. “Yeah, I guessed that by your call.” He dropped his feet to the ground and leaned forward to study the computer screen.
Walter turned the monitor in his direction and pointed at a small grid displaying a list of numbers and a colored twisted helix. “See? The genetics don’t match anything in the database.”
Jake studied the computer-generated DNA, then pushed back from the table and stood up. He walked toward a small refrigerator in the back of the room and retrieved two more beers. Returning to the table, he handed one to Walter and flipped the cap off his own. “Where does that put us on the board?”
“One up on Dan.”
Resting his hip on the edge of the table, Jake laughed and knocked his bottle against Walter’s. “Where is our man from Down Under these days?”
Walter slid his fingers across the keyboard once more. “In Spain. Donana National Park.”
Jake nodded, remembering the national disaster several years ago caused by a large toxic spill. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby garbage can.
A wave of heat emanated from the front of the lab as the door swung open, signaling the arrival of another body. Jake and Walter both turned to face the entranceway. Jake stood and returned the salute of a young soldier. “At ease,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir.”
Jake ambled toward him, stretching the kinks out of his neck. “Is it time?”
The soldier met him halfway and handed him an eight-by-ten black and white photograph. “Yes, Captain.”
Jake studied the picture and even through the grains and slight fuzziness, the beauty of the woman stole his breath. She knelt beside a riverbed, a thick braid of hair falling across her shoulder. It wasn’t the curve of breast or graceful arc of arm that drew his attention so much as the intense gaze into the camera lens. Jake knew she was unaware of the photographer, but something primal and intuitive drew her sight in the camera’s direction.
He whistled through his teeth. “Nice piece of sugar.”
The soldier glanced at him. “Sorry to contradict, Captain. But she ain’t sweet. She’s the reason we’re here.”
Jake’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “This is the zoologist?”
“Yes, sir.”
He exhaled and whistled again, this time in exasperation. “Kinda young to have New World Petroleum by the balls, don’t you think?” The soldier paused before speaking. Jake moved his head to indicate the man had his permission to continue.
“She’s causin’ a ruckus all right.”
Flipping the photograph over, Jake studied the printed type on the back of the picture. He ran a thumb along the stubble of his early evening beard. “Dr. Cassidy Lowell.” Glancing up and chuckling, he handed the picture back to the soldier. “Let’s go rescue Dr. Doolittle before she creates a worldwide incident.”
CHAPTER 3
CASSIDY CLOSED HER EYES AND ALLOWED HER BODY TO SWAY to the rhythmic movement of the small speedboat. She inhaled the briny scent of the sea; it poured into her senses as dread invaded every pore. She’d been yanked from her assignment. The disappointment on Drew Sharpe’s face played over and over again. It was haunting. Debilitating.
Failure.
No. Not a failure. Cassidy opened her eyes, straightened her shoulders and faced the fast approaching cluster of barges. She was right. It didn’t matter that Dr. Sharpe didn’t agree. He wasn’t here. He didn’t see. But her photography and videos would explain what words couldn’t. Whether she remained or worked the angle stateside, this was an ecological crime that required a resolution.
She raised her hand and shielded her eyes against the brilliant sunshine. “Red, would you run me by that last rig over there?”
The old black man nodded and turned the wheel of the small speedboat in the direction of one of New World Petroleum’s oil rigs. After leaving NWP’s headquarters, she’d decided to investigate several of their installations. The boat slapped against the choppy waves, kicking up a salty spray that cooled her skin.
“This rig’s attached to the gas lines,” Red explained to her.
They approached the rectangular shaped rig, its sides bleeding with rust. Cassidy’s eyes scanned the tall, thin round chimney that blasted poisonous gases thirty feet into the air. It burned bright and steady. “Is that so?”
“Yes’m.” Red tossed a weathered rope to one of the workers, and together they secured the speedboat against a narrow floating dock. Cassidy accepted Red’s helping hand and disembarked. “I’ll stick with you, Doc. These types don’ always take to strangers.”
Cassidy winked at the man, grinning as his wrinkled face transformed into a thing of beauty when he beamed a large smile in her direction. “Thanks, Red.”
Together they climbed rusted metal stairs that clung to the side of the ship. The noise of the rig was deafening as machinery slammed against each other and engines screeched with the strain of forcing a foreign object through the earth’s crust. Topping the edge of the main deck, Cassidy paused and waited for Red to catch up with her.
She inhaled sharply as a gorilla-sized man approached. He wore the dark green shirt of a New World Petroleum foreman, tree trunk arms swaying forward with each step he took. Cassidy placed a congenial expression upon her face and straightened her shoulders. The man didn’t scare her. Much.
He turned his gaze toward Red and nodded in recognition. “What’
s ZEBRA want here?”
Red tilted his head and pointed toward the gas exhaust. “Cole’s given her access to the rigs to measure air quality.”
Cassidy bent her head to hide a smile. Given was an overstatement. Cole’d about had an epileptic fit at her request. But he’d acquiesced in the end, rushing her off the ship because of some unscheduled appointment he’d been informed of by his head of security, Nick Fowler. Cassidy shivered at the mere thought of Fowler. The guy gave her the creeps.
Focusing her attention on the foreman, Cassidy reached out her hand and introduced herself. “I’m Dr. Lowell. I appreciate your cooperation, Mr…”
“Smithy.” The man’s eyes heated slightly as she moved past him. Cassidy narrowed her own gaze, silently warning him against any inappropriate behavior.
“Tell me, Smithy,” she said, pointing at that gas flare, “why is that still burning nonstop when you’re hooked up to the new gas lines?”
“We ain’t hooked yet.”
Cassidy flipped open her notebook and scanned the reports handed to her by New World Petroleum. “It says right here that you are.” She tapped her finger against the memorandum from Cole.
Smithy glanced at the sheet of paper; then his neck disappeared as he heaved his shoulders upward. “Ain’t never seen that. We’re a portable unit, smaller than all the other rigs ’round here. Far as I know, this baby’s going upriver in a month or so. They didn’t want to waste time connecting to the lines. Guess some other jerk’ll take this spot and siphon the methane.”
Cassidy stared at him, taken aback by that knowledge. “What’s upriver?”
The oaf shrugged beefy shoulders. “Dunno. I ain’t no informational computer.”
Snapping her notebook shut, she scribbled on the cover and turned away from the foreman. “Red, let’s go. There’s nothing more for me here.”
Red appeared startled, his forward motion coming to an awkward stop. “You don’ wanna measure the air?”
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