On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1)

by Susan Vaughan

  “He suggested I wait,” she said. “He said shipping was risky. But I felt waiting was equally risky.” She’d preferred to line up everything beforehand. “Why?”

  The warehouse lay directly ahead, a rusting metal building with bay doors open wide. A man dozed in the shade, his plastic chair propped against the door frame.

  Max switched off the engine and turned to her. “You know Costa Verde is a poor country, but you don’t know Costa Verde. Be prepared to be disappointed.”

  The skin on her arms prickled and she nibbled her lip. “What do you mean?”

  Without explanation, he shoved open the driver door.

  She unhooked her seatbelt and slid out. They circumvented puddles from the night’s downpour. In the porous soil, puddles didn’t last long so earlier this morning these must’ve been small lakes.

  “Hola,” Max greeted the warehouse manager.

  The man raised sleep-drooping eyes. The chair legs slammed to the cement floor. He stood, eyeing them with suspicion. “Hola, señor, señora.”

  Max explained what they wanted, and Kate showed her invoice. The man wore a tag that identified him as Manuel. He scratched his shaggy head and said something in Spanish. Max translated that Manuel wasn’t sure. Perhaps he remembered such a crate in the back of the warehouse.

  Max and Kate tramped behind him through the building past wooden crates and tarp-covered objects piled up at random spots.

  The warehouse was an oven. The breeze off the water wafting through the bays at either end kept the temperature just below broiling, wrapping Kate in an invisible heated towel. The air shimmered before her eyes. She dabbed her temples with a tissue. How did Max continue to look so damn cool? If this sauna didn’t bother him, what was a Texas summer like?

  Finally they reached the building’s far end. Beside a pile of unidentifiable metal parts lay a litter of broken wood slats in a puddle. Manuel pointed to the debris and mumbled a few words.

  “Manuel says this is your shipment.” Max sidled closer to her.

  “It can’t be.” She couldn’t prevent her voice from rising an octave.

  Manuel compared her invoice to the label on one slat, then returned the invoice to her.

  “Sí, sí.” This was the right crate. Or what was left of it. His shoulders moved in an elaborate shrug.

  The tacit apology seemed at odds with the look on the man’s face that said this loss was nothing new. The heat and the theft pressed down on her shoulders. What could’ve happened? She turned to Max, who was listening to Manuel’s rapid Spanish.

  “Manuel claims the crate was intact last week. Says you can file a complaint in the manager’s office.”

  “Great. Why not?” An effort probably as worthless as fanning herself with her invoice. She turned and headed back through the warehouse.

  They found the manager’s office two warehouses along the harbor. Kate completed the paperwork, including a list of the missing contents, and left it with the secretary, who apologized and clucked with concern. Better than nothing.

  Afterward, in the rental SUV, she directed the air conditioning onto her face and closed her eyes.

  “You okay?” Max handed over her canteen.

  She drank deeply. The cool liquid helped almost as much as the concern in his dark eyes. “Sure, just in shock. What could’ve happened to the supplies? Who stole them? Why?”

  “When you don’t have much, goods left lying around are up for grabs. Especially if they belong to rich gringos. Insurance will cover replacements. Chalk it up to experience.” He steered around the muddy puddles and away from the harbor area.

  “We have less than an hour until our guides arrive.” Kate sipped more water. “I hope that works out. You know the saying about bad things in threes.”

  “In this case, fours. But don’t borrow trouble. If they show, they show.”

  She laughed, surprising herself. “I wish I had your laid-back attitude. I suppose I’m overreacting. It’s just that I remember Dad planning his expeditions.”

  His gaze flicked to her before his attention returned to the road. “Not organized like a military campaign?”

  If organizing military campaigns meant chaos. Arguments between her dad and mom about whether the kids would go, what to pack, the dangers involved, and a list of other issues. Her dad the general and her mom an officer had done the planning at full volume, leaving Kate and Doug in the dark.

  Feeling Max’s gaze on her, she straightened. She hadn’t meant to reveal her resentment. “I didn’t mean that. Only that as a child I wasn’t privy to what had been decided until Dad left alone or we flew off together. I felt swept up by a tornado.”

  “Maybe parents don’t keep kids in the loop because they think they’re protecting them. Or the parents are too busy. Or tired.”

  Busy, definitely. Preoccupied with themselves and their plans, probably. And disorganized. In hindsight as an adult, she guessed it was really Dad’s assistants who’d carried out the actual organizing. If only her parents had involved her, she’d have felt... what? Reassured? Yes, but what else? She was too hot to examine it now. She shook her head to knock the unsolvable from her brain.

  He steered around a wide puddle. “No wonder you like to line things up yourself.”

  Did she? Was she a control freak? She wagged her shoulders. “I simply prefer organization, planning. Most of the time my work at the Washington Cultural Museum allows that. Managing exhibits and submitting grant applications, yes, predictable and straightforward.” She picked at the seal on her canteen.

  “And boring? Sorry. I mean, some of it must be grunt work.”

  She laughed. “To you, all of what my job involves would be boring. Yes, sometimes, like the grant writing. Bringing in traveling exhibits and meeting with the curators to organize them are joys.”

  “Did you ever want to do fieldwork like your father?”

  They were passing a small house painted sky blue, where a gray-haired woman watered flowers in a window box. A simple life with simple choices. And clear paths. “Once, but only briefly. I enjoy the cultural and historical richness of places like this and sharing it through my work. I’ll leave it to others to dig up the past.”

  “I take it your brother didn’t catch the archeology bug either,” Max said as they pulled into a parking space by the hotel.

  “Only the possibility a dig or an exotic location might lead to riches.” She sighed. “Doug’s kidnapping changed everything. I must be ready—”

  “For the unexpected,” he finished for her.

  “Yes, the unexpected.” This journey overflowed with the unexpected.

  ***

  In the jungle

  Doug Fontaine heaved himself up from the wheelchair, braced himself with his good leg, and pivoted to the narrow cot. Lungs pumping like a bellows, he collapsed onto the lumpy mattress and lifted up his cast-bound leg. His T-shirt was soaked. He swiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead and lay back on the pancake-flat pillow.

  The guard named Alano—or something that sounded like that—stood over him, hand on the knife at his belt during the process. Apparently satisfied, he yanked Doug’s hands in front of him and rebound his wrists with rough cordage.

  What the hell? Did the fucker think in Doug’s condition he could jump him and escape? The trip across the rough ground to and from the poor excuse for a toilet—a doorless outhouse—had drained what little strength he possessed. He closed his eyes. A tossup which stank worse—the outhouse or this guy’s rotten-teeth breath.

  But the smell took his mind off the darts shooting through his skull. Neither of his guards paid much attention to his pain. They doled out his meds on their own schedule and not when he needed the pain killers. He was getting better at concealing his agony, reducing its effects, even the accompanying sweats. Forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly, he pictured the blonde who sunbathed topless at his condo pool.

  Soon the vise clamping his skull cranked open and the pain rece
ded. Either he’d fallen asleep or that Zen shit the doctors advised for his brain trauma wasn’t crap after all. He’d take it. He was beginning to feel more alert, a hell of a lot sharper than those first days in this thatched-roof hut.

  For whatever crap lay ahead, today or the next, a clear head would come in handy.

  When he heard noise outside, he turned toward the doorway. No door, only an opening in one wall. At least the one tiny window and the spaces between the skinny, upright logs forming the walls let in breezes—and voices. Must be the changing of the guard.

  Al and Franco—his wider replacement—were arguing about something. Could be about Doug, could be anything. He sure as hell didn’t speak their language, Mayan, he guessed, mixed with Spanish words.

  He had no idea how long they’d held him here. It could be a week, two weeks, longer. Couldn’t gauge by beard growth. They shaved him every other day, maybe so the tape would stick to his mouth. So far they hadn’t cut him, but who knew about the next time.

  Three men had come to his condo. Al and two others. Two had the look of the Maya—broad faces, brown skin, and short stature. The taller Maya introduced himself in halting English as Don Luis, chief Jaguar Priest of K’eq Xlapak.

  “The thief took Kizin to my country,” Luis informed him gravely. “He will sell to one of the candidates for presidente. Must stop. You are rightful owner of Kizin. My people need help from you.”

  “I’m not in shape to help anybody,” Doug protested from his wheelchair. He pointed to the cast on his left leg. “Kinda outta commission.”

  The priest bowed. “Thief must pay. Come to Costa Verde. I will help you recover Kizin. Then you return Kizin to K’eq Xlapak. You will stop El Día Maldito and save my people.”

  His solemn sincerity was convincing. Hell, even on mind-dulling painkillers, Doug knew returning Kizin wouldn’t stop an imagined curse or a damn earthquake. Recovering the thing would be his chance to recoup his losses. Somehow he’d get away from these super-serious dudes and find a buyer among his many contacts. He’d be flush.

  The next day the third man drove Doug and the two Maya to the airport. In Cabo Blanco, Doug was loaded, wheelchair and all, into an old Chevy van. One of the men jabbed him with a needle. He’d blacked out for God knew how long. Until waking up here.

  Wherever the hell here was.

  In the Costa Verde jungle, for damn sure. Bird calls and howler monkey calls blasting through the canopy at all hours.

  Operating with his brain only on half speed, he hadn’t seen something was off about the damn priest. Off about the whole returning Kizin thing. If that was what these fuckers were up to. He had no real idea what they wanted or what snatching him had to do with Kizin. Nobody spoke to him in any language he could understand. Shit, he had to figure this out.

  A low rumble began then cranked up, like a convoy of semis thundering down a rutted road. Pulse revving, he heaved a sigh and wished for the forty-seventh time he wasn’t fucking tied up and could hold onto something. Anything.

  Here, folks, for your entertainment, the daily shake, rattle, and roll.

  The semis roared in and rippled the ground into a choppy sea of dust.

  Pebbles jumped and floated above the dirt floor. As the small table danced, his plastic breakfast bowl tumbled across the room. The cot’s metal frame clanked and rocked as if shaken by a giant hand, tossing him side to side.

  He stuck out his good leg to brace himself but found no purchase. He bounced half on and half off the cot.

  After a light year—or twenty seconds—the tremor stopped. Everything settled.

  Franco stumbled inside, squinting through the dust. Apparently satisfied Doug hadn’t used the opportunity to escape, the hefty guard left. A creaking noise meant he’d returned to sitting on his wooden chair.

  Doug maneuvered to the center of the bed and willed his heartbeat to regulate.

  He guessed he wasn’t far from the K’eq Xlapak epicenter. And the tremors were increasing. One or two a day, strong enough to knock over the guards’ chairs and one of the saplings near the hut.

  A big quake was coming, like the one that had killed old Gregory. And nobody knew what had happened to Doug, who had taken him, or where he was. Not the blonde by the pool. Not his mom. Not his sister.

  Katie. Dammit, she’d stuck by him every time he screwed up. She stood up for him back when they were kids. And bailed him out of some bigger scrapes now. Hell, not now. His sister was the last person who could get him out of this shit storm. His fault he’d lost Kizin and ended up in this prison hut. Maybe— No, he wouldn’t think about Katie.

  Turning onto his side, he pounded his bound fists on the thin mattress. Fuckin’-A, he had to figure out what the hell was going on and find a way to escape. How, with his leg in a cast? And go where?

  He closed his eyes and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He’d be lucky to survive. Hell, they all would.

  Kizin would have his revenge.

  Chapter Nine

  Cabo Blanco

  Max found them a table in the hotel bar where they could wait for the two guides. Something had to smooth out for Kate. “Dos cervezas, por favor.”

  The bartender nodded and reached into the cooler.

  First this half-star hotel. Then the supplies. She was holding up better than he’d reckoned after shock number two. He swigged a long drink of his beer. A Mexican brand, Sol. Not bad.

  “I wasn’t surprised at your military campaign reference,” Kate said after a sip of beer. “I gather you and Thomas Devlin were in Afghanistan together.”

  “And Iraq. Special Forces. He was my commanding officer.”

  “Delta Force, wasn’t it?”

  He went still. The army liked to be low key about SFOD-D. “What makes you think so?”

  “The delta on the Devlin Security Force logo.” She laughed, that husky laugh that went right to his cock. “I’ll let you off the hook and switch subjects. Many security firms employ ex-military. How on earth did Thomas get into the business of protecting art and artifacts?”

  He downed a swallow and cleared his throat. “I don’t have the whole story. I was still deployed when he opted out of the army and set up shop in Arlington. But our team went into Iraq a few years after the invasion forces. He was already pissed off about the looting, especially the big Baghdad museum.”

  “The National Museum’s ancient treasures weren’t all looted. Employees hid most of the priceless ones away once invasion was imminent.”

  “True, but we didn’t know that for a long time. And later looters went after ancient sites and museums all over Iraq. When some of us caught one of our men carting away artifacts at a temple in southern Iraq, Thomas went ballistic. Thief did some time for that. Reckon it psyched Thomas to rectify matters. One of DSF’s first gigs was to recover some of the stuff that was actually stolen.”

  “Impressive.” The look in her eyes said the company just went up a notch in her mind. As children’s laughter floated in from the plaza, she glanced outside.

  He finished his beer and waved to the bartender. To Kate he said, “Want another? Or would you rather have something else?”

  “Beer’s fine. But one will do. I still have some.” She kicked off her sandals and crossed her legs, flashing him an eyeful of tanned and toned thigh. Tendrils of her bright hair curled around her face in corkscrews, soft-looking hair a guy liked to get his hands into. This guy.

  Max clamped his jaw against a rush of heat. He linked his fingers around his empty cerveza until the new one arrived.

  She sipped her beer. A gentle smile played on her lips as she watched the shoppers. In the full heat of the day, their numbers had dwindled. Vendors fanned themselves beneath awnings and parasols.

  Rather than awkward silence, the interlude felt more like companionable quiet. “Tell me about these men you hired.” Another disaster looming? He hoped to hell not. All he knew was they hailed from the village near K’eq Xlapak. Devlin had said Mara rol
led her eyes at the impossibility of conducting background checks on Maya villagers.

  Her mouth curved in a rueful smile. “I don’t blame you for skepticism. I didn’t hire them. The project archeologist at K’eq Xlapak arranged it, following the priest’s instructions. Arturo and Constantino seemed the logical choice because they’re already here in the capital. They came to find work.”

  Table legs rattled on the tile floor. His full bottle tipped over, sloshing beer onto the cracked tile. The vibration strengthened, shaking the table harder and swinging the overhead fan in an arc. A couple of vacant chairs fell over. Plaster dust rained from the ceiling.

  Max gripped the table. Oh, shit.

  “Max?” Kate’s eyes grew big and round as hubcaps. All color fled her face. She clutched the camera bag. Jerked to her feet and booked it out the exit.

  Worked for him. He jumped up and followed in the wake of her escape.

  Out in the sun, people in the square stood with their feet planted wide for support as the ground spasmed beneath them. Curtains of dust flew upward, whirling like dervishes.

  Max caught up to Kate, wrapped an arm about her trembling shoulders. She grasped his arm in a tourniquet grip.

  “Just a tremor, darlin’, no big deal.” Madre de Dios, tell yourself that, Rivera.

  The shaking subsided slowly, like retreating thunder. A fine layer of soil settled on everything. People around them picked up their dropped shopping bags, crossed themselves, and went about their business. Vendors collected their wares from the ground. The air smelled of heat and dust.

  Panting, apparently close to hyperventilating, Kate still held on, her nails digging into his skin.

  Max sneezed. “You can let go now. It’s over.”

  “Oh.” Color seeped back into her skin in the form of a blush.