The tunnel seemed to shrink in on Sam, boxing him in on every side. He stared desperately at Carl who was now bent over the IED wielding a pair of specialized clippers. Come on, buddy. You can do it.
"You need me to repeat, sir?" Bullfrog asked.
"No." Sam's thoughts raced, even as his muscles quivered with a frustrated need to respond. "We have to find her before they can..." He trailed off, unwilling to consider what would happen to her now. His thoughts went to finding her instead. "Wait, she carries a satellite phone everywhere she goes. If we're lucky, she's got it on her. Tell Master Chief to call her father. Get her number and use GPS to track her location. Call me back when you know more."
"Yes, sir. Over."
Christ. "How much longer, Carl?" he raged.
A soft snick preceded Carl's answer. "All done, sir." He rose fluidly to his feet. "You'll want to stay behind me," he chided gently as he slipped his tools back into his pockets.
Sam acknowledged the subtle admonition with a nod. The spiders could have at him for all he cared. Still, considering Maddy's present terror—God, she had to be beside herself!—he chafed to sprint for the closest exit. But who knew how many more filaments lay in his path? An explosion of any size would bring the earthen ceiling crashing down on their heads. He licked the salty sweat off his upper lip and gestured for Carl to proceed.
This is a nightmare.
The terrorists, if they could see him now, would gloat at his predicament. Here he was, trapped in a tunnel laden with IEDs, looking for them when they were already long gone. More than that, they'd seized a prize that Sam had failed to sufficiently protect.
The walls of the snaking tunnel blurred as denial raged inside of him. An image of Maddy lying beneath him, her gaze unfocused and glazed with passion, swam before his eyes.
My beautiful Maddy. He should have done more to keep her safe. One junior SEAL pitted against a handful of experienced terrorists wasn't enough. Christ, if anything awful happened to her—and the odds were sickeningly high that something would—he would simply never forgive himself.
Chapter 10
Maddy awoke with a crick in her neck that came from sleeping sitting up while propped against a wall. Where am I? For a panicked second, she failed to recognize her dark, cramped surroundings. But the scratchy blanket under her hip and the numb fire licking up her arms reminded her of her predicament.
Her thoughts went back to the moment when the terrorist had thrust her out of the van and hustled her into a dark house, surrounded at a distance by other buildings. The sound of the van pulling away, taking her satphone with it, had made her cry out in denial. Another stinging slap delivered by the scar-faced devil had shocked her into silence.
Overwrought by the fact that her only hope, her satellite phone had gone on without her, she'd scarcely registered that they'd stuck her in a closet on the home's second level and secured the door from the outside. Grateful to be left alone, she'd bewailed her circumstances and begged her mother's spirit to save her. At some point, she must have fallen asleep.
Wincing in discomfort, Maddy used her shoulders and her feet to brace herself as she pushed to a standing position. Faint light shone through the seam around the door, suggesting that it was morning. She had managed to sleep quite a while, then, but now her bladder needed relieving. "Hello," she cried out, loath to draw attention to herself but even more reluctant to pee in the closet. "I have to use the restroom!"
Putting an ear to the door, she heard footsteps on the stairs and drew back. Her heart galloped as one of her captives paused before her closet. The knob gave a click, and the door swept open, revealing the youngest of the three, a youth she hadn't paid much attention to back at the lab except to note his resemblance to the leader. This morning, he clutched a deadly-looking knife that earned her full attention. He regarded her mistrustfully, his hazel eyes wide and wary.
Keeping his dagger trained on her heart, he crooked a finger at her, gesturing for her to step out. She did so fearing the worst, and he roughly turned her. Maddy gasped as the knife sliced between her wrists and snapped the plastic cuffs in half. Her arms fell to her sides and she shook them out, stunned and grateful.
"Walk," he ordered in English, giving her a shove.
On quaking knees, she preceded him into a sparse bedroom. Given the two beds, a uniform folded neatly on the dresser top and the smell of man—not unpleasant but distinctly masculine—she surmised the room belonged to this youth and his older brother, the leader. Her captor extended her a folded garment then pointed out the adjoining bathroom. "You may wash," he instructed, his English not as fluent as his brother's.
Wordlessly Maddy accepted the gray robe and equally drab scarf and backed into the bathroom, shutting the door and quickly locking it. The flimsy lock wouldn't keep anyone out for long. Turning, she assessed the possibility of escape with a hopeful heart. However, the only window, high and narrow, was comprised of thick, cube-shaped glass, impossible to break or even to see through, and her hopes plummeted.
Perhaps she might find a weapon that she could conceal and use later?
But after peering into the cabinet under the sink and sifting through modest supplies, she realized why her captors didn't own even a single razor—because they all wore full beards. There was only soap and toilet paper and a few thin towels for drying off. She had better make use of those amenities while she could.
Minutes later, shivering from a cold shower, her damp hair wetting the coarse chapan she had tunneled into, Maddy eyed herself in the mirror. A pale frightened face stared back at her. I won't be here long, she assured her reflection. But now that her phone was gone, driven off to God-knew-where, how would the SEALs ever track her down?
A knock at the door startled her. "Madison Scott," said a voice that thinned her blood, "Step out."
The leader had sworn that he would kill her for betraying him. Maddy scooped up her balled clothing, raised the drab scarf over her head, and pulled the door open, gripping her bundle tightly. The impact of her captor's stare drove the air back into her lungs.
"I never told anyone," she blurted, although technically that was a lie. She'd told Sam about the incident two nights ago.
A cynical smile made his soft-looking beard twitch. "Indeed. Well, it makes no difference now. The Americans are here, aren't they? My name is Salim," he added, surprising her by making introductions. He rendered a slight bow.
"Your English is excellent," she observed, since they were exchanging niceties.
"It should be. I studied at Oxford for six years—politics and environmentalism," he added with a knowing look.
Similar to what she'd studied. "What do you intend with me, Salim?" she dared to ask him.
His thinning lips conveyed disapproval. "A typical American," he observed, "so forthright, so rude," he chided, not unkindly. "Please, have a seat. Let us get to know each other while you eat."
She saw that he'd provided a plate of bread and goat cheese, along with a cup of orange juice.
Obviously, he didn't mean to kill her right away. Thoughts of a lengthy captivity kept her from celebrating. Sinking into the chair he'd indicated, she put the plate in her lap and began to nibble at it as he sat across from her on one of the two beds. The springs creaked.
Highly conscious of his watchful gaze, she chewed a bit of cheese without tasting. When he kept silent, she did the same with a portion of the bread. If communication was the key to world peace, as she'd told Sam, she needed to bring up a neutral topic to ease the tension between them.
"The younger man, is he your brother?" she finally asked.
A hint of a smile hovered over Salim's mouth. "His name is Nasrallah," he said by way of an answer. "It means Victory of God."
"That's lovely. I wish I'd had a brother, but I'm an only child."
"Sounds lonely."
"It was," she admitted, letting him glimpse her regret. "What about the others," she continued. "Who are they?"
All hint of pl
easure fled his face. "Their names you need not know," he said in a harsh voice.
"You don't like them," she surmised.
"I do not. They are Lebanese, and I am Paraguayan. My family left Beirut in 1982, before I was born. This is my native country."
"Why do they work for you then?" she asked, referring to the other soldiers, not his family.
"They were sent to me by Hezbollah to help me address the exploitation of my country by the American oil company."
The sun in the window rose higher drawing a shadow over the upper half of Salim's face. "How is it exploiting you?" she asked, intrigued by his assertion.
"The United States of America has no business sucking the wealth from Paraguay," he stated with suppressed outrage. "I have requested that Scott Oil sell half its shares to my countrymen—that would make it equitable, don't you think?"
"Yes," she said, completely honest in her reply.
"But the company refuses. Therefore I must keep you here as my unwilling guest until they change their mind."
Unwilling guest. The words chilled her. "What makes you think they care anything about me?" she asked, but deep down, she already knew that he knew.
He loosed a soft chuckle. "Well, I could say that your being an employee of GEF, I would rely on the international scientific community to put pressure on Scott Oil. But the truth is, I don't have to, do I?"
She searched his exotic eyes. He most certainly knew.
"I know who you are, Miss Scott," he added quietly, corroborating her guess.
She didn't bother pretending not to understand. That would only anger him and insult his intelligence. She merely inclined her head. Then she said, "But my father is no longer in control."
His expression hardened. "I know that. But now your uncle is the new CEO. And your father may be even more powerful soon. Isn't that right?" He glanced out the window and then back at her. "I'm counting on your family to choose your life over the profits they earn from pillaging my country's resources."
Her life! The implication that he would kill her if his demands were not met sent the blood draining from her head. "Eighty percent of Scott Oil's proceeds remain here in Paraguay," Maddy quoted. "That was stipulated in the trade agreement."
Salim tsked his tongue and shook his head. "If only the new CEO abided by the agreement," he lamented.
She bristled in defense of her uncle's integrity. "How do you know he doesn't?"
"My family are all in politics. Trust me—when I say that he keeps all the profits for himself, I am not lying. It's no secret that Scott Oil has violated its promises."
Really? Her father would be stunned to hear that her uncle had altered the company's policies and violated previous agreements.
"But the economy is thriving, right?" In desperation, she pointed out the good that Scott Oil had done for this country, citing Ricardo's arguments. "For the first time in history, Paraguay exports oil without having to rely on Argentina's imports."
"Perhaps," Salim conceded. "That doesn't alter the fact that Scott Oil is profiting from resources that should be ours alone."
Maddy kept her mouth closed. It wasn't difficult at all for her to empathize with Salim's viewpoint. "I actually agree," she finally conceded. She'd had that opinion all along. Looking up, she caught a glint of approval in his eyes.
"I will send a ransom note to GEF," he explained, switching topics and causing what little food she'd eaten to turn to rocks in her belly. "I will count on them to inform your uncle and your father of our demands. If Scott Oil opens their doors to Paraguayan investors so that fifty percent or more become shareholders, then I will release you," he said, kindly.
She searched his expression for any hint of deception. "But that could take weeks," she protested. Tears of frustration and fear rushed into her eyes, brimming over her lower lashes.
Salim took note of her fragility. "You have nothing to fear," he said encouragingly. "Not from me nor from my brother. And we will protect you from the others."
The memory of the stinging slap she'd received had her touching her cheek. Intuition whispered that this man and his younger brother were the only entities standing between her and the radical terrorists whom the SEALs were hunting. Nausea threatened to upend her stomach. She set her plate abruptly aside and took a quick sip of the watery juice.
"I must film you in captivity," Salim said, producing a cell phone from his breast pocket and accessing its camera feature.
Maddy regarded the Motorola with faint hope. If he sent his film of her via wireless cellular transmission, it might be possible for the authorities to trace the way it had been routed and triangulate her location.
"You will identify yourself when I tell you to," Salim instructed, "and answer my questions succinctly. And if you must cry again, now would be the time to do it."
* * *
Sam paced the perimeter of the table in the TOC, unaware that he was circling his colleagues like a satellite orbiting the earth. Commander MacDougal flicked him a censorial look. "Have a seat, Sam. You're making us dizzy."
He dropped into the nearest chair. Dragging fingers through his crisp hair, he glared at the monitor. "How much longer?"
"Almost there," Kuzinksy promised as he worked to open several image files.
It'd been twelve hours since Maddy's disappearance—the longest twelve hours of Sam's entire life, feeling even longer than the weeks he'd spent in jail back in high school. At least then, he'd only had to worry about himself.
If only he had asked Maddy for her phone number eons ago. They needed it to find her phone, and therefore her. Sam's impulse to ask Lyle Scott for Maddy's phone number had been vetoed by Commander MacDougal for the following reasons: The longer Lyle Scott remained ignorant of Maddy's situation, the safer Maddy was. The candidate for Senate wouldn't be able to keep the news to himself, and soon the press would know. If Hezbollah realized what a prize they held, there was a good chance that they'd ship her out of Paraguay on the first plane to Beirut, where she'd be held as a bargaining chip for the release of high-profile terrorists currently in U.S. captivity. She would become a political pawn, never to see the light of day again.
"We'll call GEF to request her cell number," Mad Max had suggested. But after an hour of trying and failing to reach a live human being on a weekend, the CO had given up.
In desperation, Sam had dashed across the street to beg Lucía for Maddy's number. Lucía had referred him to Ricardo, who still lay in the hospital recovering. At precisely 0600, the soonest that visitors were permitted to see patients, Sam had burst into Ricardo's room.
"Maddy's gone," he'd announced without preamble.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The terrorists took her. I guess she never told you that she was in the lab when they killed the security guard and stole the nitric acid, did she? Well, she was," he added, as Ricardo's eyes had widened in horror and the implications had registered on his swarthy face. "They threatened to kill her if she told anyone."
Ricardo had started struggling out of bed, and Sam had ordered him to lie back down. "She had her phone with her," he'd explained. "But we need her number so we can use the phone's GPS to find her."
Ultimately, Ricardo had offered him more than just a number. He'd informed him that Maddy had registered her phone with AccuTracking, which meant that anyone in law enforcement could find the phone by plugging in her number.
Sam had taken that encouraging news straight to his leaders. Lt. Lindstrom had promptly called his wife, an FBI special agent. Pledging to keep Maddy's kidnapping a secret for the time being, Hannah Lindstrom had used AccuTracking to provide the SEALs with the exact latitude and longitude of Maddy's satellite phone. JSOTF then linked them to a satellite perfectly situated to send them live images of the area where her phone was located—eighteen miles north of Mariscal Estigarribia.
"Got 'em," Master Chief said, opening the first image. Sam sat forward in his seat, straining for a better view. The pixe
lated images focused abruptly, showing the top of a white van amidst sand and scrub brush.
Master Chief toggled in, and a few more details came into view, like the broken taillights. He toggled way out. There was nothing but a rolling savannah and a couple of palm groves for miles in any direction. If Maddy was in the same place her phone was, then she was out in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Subsequent photos taken five and ten minutes later showed no movement, no signs of life whatsoever. Moreover, there was no option of seeing what had happened earlier, as the satellite had just begun to sweep over the area.
It was Bronco, a trained tracker, who pointed out a faint set of tracks leading south. "Someone walked away," he stated. "Headed back to town."
"That's a long walk," Kuzinsky observed.
"She could have been dropped off anywhere along the way, and just her phone was left behind," Jeremiah suggested.
Or she might still be lying in that van with a bullet in her head. Sam thrust the unwanted image from his mind. "Can AccuTracker trace the route she took?"
The Ops officer shook his head. "Not unless she made a call along the way."
Sam's hopes for a quick recovery hit another wall. He looked back at the screen, his eyes burning for lack of sleep. Lyle Scott is going to blame me for this, he thought with a guilty conscience. And I deserve every ounce of the man's condemnation. I should have protected Maddy myself, not left it up to a SEAL with limited experience.
He sent the CO an imploring look. "What are we waiting for, sir? We know where to start searching."
Mad Max's long stare made him regret asking. "Nightfall, Lieutenant," he said in a voice that managed to be both condescending and sympathetic at the same time. Straining the joints in his chair, the CO leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
"Operation Anaconda was supposed to be a purely military operation," he reflected, chiding the group in general, though Sam knew the man's words were directed at him. "Now that there's a civilian involved—a high-profile American civilian—our activity down here is going to fall under scrutiny, especially if we fail to handle this situation effectively and quietly."
Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) Page 13
