Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (8 page)

Scott sat remembering the young
dark-haired woman who’d clomped into the seminar fifteen minutes late in
Western-style boots.

He’d at first mistaken her for
a Spanish girl. It wasn’t until she’d settled herself in among the fresh
American arrivals that he’d realized she was one of the newcomers to the
exchange program. He’d spent the next fifty minutes ignoring the lecture and
trying to concoct something witty to say. He needn’t have worked so hard, for
when the class ended, she’d approached him.

'You from the States?'


'Didn’t realize I still look so
American.'

'Still?'

'This is my second year,' he’d
said, feeling the rash of heat at his neck. He’d never seen such dark eyes.
Nearly black and sparkling with that tantalizing mixture of woman and child.

She’d looked at him, clearly
sensing his interest but not the least bit intimidated. Then she’d announced
she would accept his offer of coffee before the query had formed on his lips.

At the university bar, he’d
discovered she was a second semester junior.
Spanish/
poli-sci
double major, with ambitions of living in
Washington.

At that point, Scott wasn’t
sure where he’d wind up. Spain was good enough for him. So good, he’d told her,
that he’d decided to finish up his senior year credits there rather than going
back home.

She’d given him a warming smile
that made him want to reach across the table and touch her, but he’d resisted.

'Quite a temptation,' she’d
said, her eyes an improbable invitation.

Scott tipped up his tumbler and
drained the last bit of coffee from his glass.
And now she
was gone,
desaparacida
.
Almost as if he had willed it.
But he hadn’t willed it.
Never in their most abysmal moments would he have wished for that. Scott felt a
shiver of half-truths shimmy down his spine as he dug into the pocket of his
faded jeans for some change. It was a coin toss really. Whether or not he’d
done the right thing. No, honorable was the word. The
Dentons
were all so intent on doing the honorable thing. He knew what his father would
say. But, according to his Dad, he didn’t own one goddamned shred of decency
anyhow. So what the hell was the difference?

Ana could hear the low buzz of
propellers and feel the tug of gravity in her stomach. They were taking off.

She fought to remember what day
it was. Tuesday? No, Thursday. It was an impossible game. Still, she was
grateful for the challenge. Kept her busy, her mind occupied. And when her mind
was occupied, it was easier to fight the pull of the drugs. Besides, lucidity
was her only asset.

She could never escape. There
were too many of them. At least they wouldn’t kill her. They’d had plenty of
opportunity for that. But something kept them stalling.

They thought she had something.
Some kind of key information involving her father.
Perhaps her ignorance was her salvation. If she’d given them what they’d wanted
in the jungle, surely they would have slain her there. But why keep her alive
if she claimed to know nothing?

Two reasons, she figured: one,
because they thought she was lying and planned to eventually torture it out of
her; or two, because she was a hostage and somehow valuable as an exchange.
But to whom?
To her mother, who probably knew no more than
she did? No, it was ludicrous.

The engines roared and the
plane leveled off at a steady altitude. She realized she was seated upright in
an airline chair, her wrists and ankles bound, her shoulders strapped to the
seat with reinforced tape. Their ascent had been a short one. Too short, she
realized, for the average airliner. She’d been flying all her life, long enough
to know what was typical. There was only one probable explanation.

Her project concerned the
delivery of pharmaceuticals to field hospitals in Costa
Negra
.
There were certain controlled substances involved, valuable medicines when
prescribed through legitimate channels but a bureaucratic nightmare when taken
into the wrong hands. She and her team members had been warned to defend
against system abuse, particularly with Costa
Negran
drug runners working so closely with the Colombians. She’d been given a
background paper to read, some thing unclassified about smuggling tactics prepared
by the DEA for State. Smugglers generally flew at low altitudes to avoid radar
detection. 'Nap-of-the-earth flying,' it was called, '...flying low, hugging
the features of the terrain.'

She had no way of knowing for
certain how high up they were, but the craft did feel small. It seemed to pivot
and vault in the air and didn’t have the steady drag of a jet.

Ana got this funny feeling. She
remembered the fury in El
Dedo’s
voice as he held the
raw edge of his blade to her throat: '...a lot of money at stake here.
Comprende
? Mucho
dinero
!'

This wasn’t just any
kidnapping.

It took Mark a full two hours
to decode and read the messages Jarvis sent from Washington. The tie between El
Dedo
and
Carnova
looked
promising, if one could use such a word to describe their liaison. As far as
Mark could tell, it looked like
Carnova
was using El
Dedo's
Latin American connections to help secure weapons
for his Spanish uprising.

Mark could smell the money
involved and knew the Colombians' reputation for stockpiling weapons. It was a
well-
known fact that contraband weapons were often smuggled
along drug-trafficking routes. Everything was starting to fall into place. The
missing link was Ana.

Even if Albert Kane had been
involved for many years in covert operations, what did that have to do with his
daughter? Kane had worked in Iberia during the War. Maybe someone there had an
old axe to grind. But the man was dead. Waging war with his ghost seemed a
wasted battle. Wasted, and yet Ana’s kidnapping had turned American
Intelligence protocol on its head.

Mark's intuition told him this
terrorist triangle involving Colombia, Costa
Negra
and Spain had Ana Kane caught squarely in its middle.

All at once, with no facts to
prove it, he knew he was right. She was no longer in Costa
Negra
.
He would proceed with the routine checks and border patrol calls. But first, he
would telephone Jarvis to say he was coming home.

Mark made his calls and
breakfasted in the hotel bar. Then he checked with the concierge regarding
Ana's belongings. Not surprisingly, her room had been cleared, and all remaining
items boxed on the morning of Mark's arrival.

At first, the clerk was
reluctant to grant him access to the storage area but, after a persuasive
grease of the palm, he’d been happy to show Mark to the over-stuffed wooden
crate sequestered in a musky corner of the basement.

Nothing really seemed out of
place. A couple of business suits, pantyhose, makeup and the like. He closed
the zipper on the small suitcase and was just standing to go when two canceled
U.S. postage stamps caught his eye. He pulled the envelope from the front flap
of the bag and examined its return address. Scott Denton, Washington, DC.

Mark stuffed the envelope into
his coat pocket and checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Not much time before
catching his one o'clock flight to Miami.

As he crossed through the hotel
lobby with his bags, the concierge stopped him with urgency. 'Senor Taylor,
el
telefono
!'

He took the call at the
switchboard while Gustavo waited impatiently outside. Mark motioned for the
cabby to wait and picked up the receiver.

It was a winded Ambassador
Mooney; he could barely hold his air to speak. 'I've got someone here who needs
to talk to you.'

Mark couldn't waste time with
preliminaries. He knew he was on the right track and would have to make haste.

'I'm on my way to the airport.
I think I've got a lead on Ana and Joe.'

'Precisely
what I need to see you about.
We've found the Embassy jeep and Joe.'

Mark's heart
bounded in his chest.
He had assumed Joe was still with Ana. Although,
of course, Ana was the target and Joe had just been in the way. Mark steadied
his voice in an effort to convey concern. 'Is he –?'

'Alive? Yes, thank God. Took a
couple of slugs to the shoulder, but he'll live. He's a tough one.'

Mark was surprised the
kidnappers had left this loose end and figured there must be more to the story.

'I'll bet he is. Listen, I'm
glad your nephew's all right. Looks like I'll need to talk to him after all.
The sooner, the better.
Where are you?'

'We're at my house on
Avenida
de la
Constitucion
.
Gustavo knows where it is,' Mooney said, still out of breath.

'Good, I'll stop by on my way
to the airport.'

Mark quickly scanned the room
to be sure he hadn't been overheard,
then
hurried down
the stairs to the taxi where his driver was waiting.

Mark sat in a beige patio chair
sipping a rum and coke and surveying the face before him. So this was Ana's
idea of a rugged Romeo, he thought with amusement, swirling the ice in his
glass. McFadden was a brawny guy, beefy through the shoulders, but also a
little too wide in the gut. Still, he held a certain appeal, Mark supposed, for
women who liked that rough-riding type.

McFadden was shaking his head,
massaging the shoulder portion of the heavy bandage that crossed his bare
chest. He had a three-day growth of reddish beard and spoke in an affected
southern twang. Not Deep South.
One of the Carolinas,
probably.
Maybe even Virginia.

A stillness
settled into McFadden's eyes. 'What the hell do you make of it, Mr. DOD?'

'Neal, the name’s Neal, son,'
Mooney interposed, sounding a bit embarrassed on his nephew's behalf.

Mark examined the marbled
pattern of the patio, taking his time to speak. He could feel McFadden
assessing him, weighing his countenance against some projected image.

'What I make of it, Mr.
McFadden, is really Defense Department information and therefore none of your
goddamned business.'

'Look, asshole, Ana Kane is a
damned good friend of mine, so whatever concerns her safety is my fucking
business!'

Mark stayed coolly in his
chair. McFadden took one big stride in Mark's direction. Mooney stepped forward
to intervene. 'Now, now, boys,' he said, forcing a placating smile. 'We all
want the same thing here.'

McFadden returned to his seat
and sank low in his chair, the blood draining from his face, as Mark downed his
last bit of
cubalibre
. 'So, McFadden, according to
your story, they left you for dead.'

'My story?' he said, glancing
at his uncle. 'Who the hell does this guy think he is?'

Mooney ignored him, and went
back to the bar to refill his drink. He motioned to Mark, offering a second
round, but Mark declined with a shake of his head. There was still something
about McFadden’s story that didn’t add up.

'Tell me something, McFadden.
How is it that half a dozen armed insurgents didn’t put your lights out?'

McFadden shifted in his seat
and tugged at the bandage. 'Flak vest.'

'Body armor?
You went out into the jungle suited up?'

'And why not?
I thought there might be trouble.'

'Trouble enough for you, but
not Miss Kane?'


'Lady’s got a mind of her own.'

'Tell me what rots with this
picture. Last time I checked, flak vests weren’t State Department issue.'

Joe took a swig from his bottle
of beer. 'No, Mr. DOD, you got me there. Let’s just say being the Ambassador’s
nephew has its perks.'

Mark decided to look into it
later. His priority now was
Ana
. Everything he’d heard
confirmed his suspicions. Even though McFadden couldn’t make a positive ID,
this ambush had El
Dedo’s
greasy fingerprints all
over it.

Mark stood and carried his
empty glass to the bar, relieved to see McFadden rise and clear the room.

'Ambassador, thank you for your
hospitality, but I have a plane to catch.'

'Not so fast, young man.'
Mooney stopped him by standing directly in his path. 'You're going to have a
little company for the road.'

Mark met the older man's look with
an appraising frown. The Ambassador didn't seem prepared for travel.

McFadden appeared in the
doorway, a blue duffel bag under his arm.

Oh God, tell me this isn't
happening. Mark could feel the walls of his stomach closing in. He turned to
Mooney for clarification. Surely this was some sort of maniacal State
Department joke.

'Sorry, son, but it’s true.
Joe’s going
back to Washington with you. Everything's
already been settled with George.'

Mark turned to Mooney, praying
for an inconceivable out. Beyond the doorway, the two of them could hear the
flap of Joe's sandals descending the polished front steps.

Mooney ventured a smile. 'I'm
sure he knows enough not to get in your way. Besides, you never know when a
fellow like Joe might come in handy.'

The jet took off. Joe reclined
in his seat and fidgeted with the air control. Neal, his nose in a magazine,
was ignoring him completely.

Joe’s eyes flickered over Neal
with contempt. Fine, let the fucker read his magazine. This DOD asshole doesn't
give a damn about me. It's all about operational protocol. I've seen the type.
Always dotting all the 'I's' and crossing all those goddamned
'T's'.
How the hell did he get to be an operative anyway? Operatives
don't play by the rules. Operatives play to win.