"Says here that you're taking five days of leave." The CO's squinty eyes jumped up from the paper he was holding. "You'd better get your affairs in order in that time, Sasseville. You work for the United States Navy, not for Lyle Scott."
"Yes, sir," Sam replied. Sign the fucking paper. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. Wouldn't it just suck if Maddy came to harm at the hands of a family member after surviving abduction by known terrorists? Nausea roiled up in him, making him swallow hard.
"Fine." Taking the pen Kuzinsky held out silently, the mustached commander scrawled his signature on the line, handing it back to the master chief who signed his own before passing it off to Sam to sign on the third line.
"Maybe in your free time you could look into that little matter you were wondering about last week," Kuzinsky suggested, as Sam handed him the form.
It took Sam a second to realize what matter he meant—the possibility that Scott Oil resided in SOCOM's back pocket and was manipulating the military to act on its behalf.
"Of course," he said.
"You need a copy?" Kuzinsky inquired, holding up the leave chit.
Sam scanned the document, noting the date and hour he was due to report back to Dam Neck Naval Annex, SEAL Team 12's headquarters. He didn't have time to wait for Kuzinsky to find a copier. "No, thanks, Master Chief." He sent him a silent nod of thanks, held a salute up to the CO, and waited with years melting off his life for Mad Max to set him free.
The commander finally acknowledged him with a tossed-off salute. "I want you back in one piece," he stated.
"Yes, sir!" Sam had already slung his duffel back over his shoulder.
Bronco followed him all the way to the exit. "You're going without us?" He sounded incredulous, like they were Siamese twins recently separated.
"Look, I don't have a choice. Just keep the guys in line for me, and I'll see you in six days." He backed out of the door, making eye contact with Bullfrog next, then sending a nod at Bamm-Bamm, who might have just saved Maddy's life. And then he took off running.
Chapter 14
"I'm telling you," Maddy insisted, carving into her steak with a dull steak knife, "the proof is out there, and I'm going to find it this week."
She had thought her uncle would object to her insistence that Scott Oil's waste barrels and containment walls weren't doing their job, that the flora and fauna of El Chaco were being negatively affected. To her surprise, he'd listened to her intently while forking up bites of his entrée, a rib-eye steak, deliciously prepared by an unseen cook, while two young servers scurried about filling their glasses and bringing in the next course.
"You should do whatever your heart dictates, Maddy," he declared when her objections came to a close. Sitting back in his chair, he stifled a burp, and reached for his wine. "Whether you succeed in proving your mother's objections to drilling or not, she would be proud of you."
Maddy basked in his unexpected compliment. "Well, thank you." She tolerated Uncle Paul for one simple reason only. It wasn't because she fell for his insincere smiles and zest for the good life. It was because he could talk about her mother without plunging into grief the way her father did.
"I miss her, your mother," he said with a ponderous sigh.
A lump formed in Maddy's throat, keeping her from taking another bite. "Me, too," she admitted.
A faraway look entered his eyes as he sadly shook his head. "Funny how we take people for granted until they're gone. Have you tried the wine?" he asked, switching topics abruptly and holding up his glass. The burgundy liquid caught and held the light of the gaudy chandelier.
Everything about the mansion her uncle admitted to purchasing was heavy and ornate, even the long table at which they sat, hewn from dense, gleaming quebracho wood. "This is Screaming Eagle Cabernet from Napa Valley," he informed her on a proud note. "One bottle cost me almost three grand."
Maddy stared in astonishment at her uncle's proud statement. "Three thousand dollars for a bottle of wine?"
"Nearly," he amended, putting his glass down.
Her opinion of his character sank to a new low. "You do realize that a well can be dug in Somalia for three thousand dollars—providing fresh water to mothers and children, keeping them from having to walk miles and miles in either direction, toting jugs on their heads?" she asked, fighting to keep her tone even.
Her observation had him throwing back his head in a spate of laughter. After a moment, he wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye and said, "Now, that's why I enjoy having you around, Maddy. That's exactly something your mother would have said."
The compliment caught her off guard, mitigating her condemnation of his values. "Tell me one of your memories of her from when you were young," she requested. "What was it like growing up together?" She could never hear enough about her mother to satisfy her yearning.
Uncle Paul pursed his full lips as he thought back. "Okay, I'll tell you," he promised, "but first try the wine since I went to the trouble of opening it for you."
"Actually, your serving boy opened it," she pointed out with a jab of her fork.
He wagged a finger at her. "She would have said that, too." Then he gestured at her glass. "How is it?"
Lifting the long-stemmed glass to her lips, she took an obligatory sip. Yes, the wine was good, but no better in her estimation than her favorite seven-dollars-a-bottle Chilean malbec. "Lovely," she replied, putting down the glass and eyeing him expectantly.
Her uncle drummed his fingers on the table top. "A memory, huh?" He thought another minute. "Okay, when she was little, say six, and I was eight, she used to follow me everywhere—very annoying from a brother's perspective. I remember one day when I was hanging out with my buddies up in a tree—a huge oak tree in our front yard in Dallas, and she joined us. She didn't say anything, mind you, but I could tell my friends didn't like her there, so I gave her a nudge."
Maddy gasped in horror. "You pushed her out of the tree?"
He held up a hand to ward off her condemnation. "She wasn't that high up, and she survived the fall with just a sprained wrist. What impressed me, however, was that she never told on me. Most little sisters would have told, don't you think?"
"Definitely," Maddy agreed, picturing her blonde mother clutching her injured wrist and marching stoically away. "What about when you were older?"
"Hmm. Our relationship remained strained. You know what it's like in high school, how important it is to be one of the popular kids?"
Maddy acknowledged his statement, though in her case, coping with her mother's death had been her biggest preoccupation back in high school.
"I was a junior when your mother was a freshman," her uncle recalled. "There I was, trying my best to look cool and to maintain the status I'd earned as an upper classman. Your mother joined me at the high school and nearly ruined me."
"How so?"
He gave a self-disparaging laugh. "She didn't play the games everyone else played. Didn't give a fig for social mores. Instead, she collected misfits. Every new kid, every fat kid, every foreign kid or immigrant became her friend," he said on a droll note. "I had to pretend we weren't related."
Picturing her uncle's quandary, Maddy grinned. Her mother had had it right. People were just people. To Melinda Scott, there were no distinctions of race or appearance or judgments based on popularity. Admiration toward the teenaged Melinda for defying peer pressure made her yearn more than ever for her loving presence. How she wished her mother were alive still, so she could tell her just how much she admired her. And so she could introduce her to Sam.
"She watches over me, you know," Maddy heard herself admit.
Uncle Paul sent her a startled look. "What do you mean, darling?"
She explained how she could feel her mother's spirit sometimes, usually in dangerous situations or when she had a decision to make. "I think she's the reason I survived being kidnapped. Most people aren't that fortunate."
The sudden appearance of Uncle Paul's bodyguard k
ept her from elucidating. The taciturn giant who entered the room with a scowl on his face hadn't bothered to introduce himself when he'd knocked on her condo door two hours before and escorted her to her uncle's Mercedes. Throughout the twenty-minute ride to the mansion at the top of the hill, he'd kept silent, ignoring her questions and observations. It wasn't until her uncle greeted her in the foyer that she'd learned the bodyguard's name—Elliot.
He'd apparently been a former wrestling champion. And the reason he didn't speak, her uncle had explained, was because he'd bitten his tongue so badly in a wrestling match that he couldn't talk without a terrible lisp.
Maddy would like to feel sympathy for the man, but Elliot's oily regard had made her skin crawl. She'd found herself missing Sam, mere hours after their farewell. Sam would never have put up with the man's rudeness.
Uncle Paul looked annoyed at having their dinner interrupted. "What is it, Elliot?"
The gargantuan man marched up to his employer and handed him a scrap of paper. Her uncle scanned the words scribbled on it, and his expression grew shuttered.
"Well, let him in, then," he said with a forced smile. As Elliot exited the dining room, Uncle Paul looked down the table at Maddy. "It seems you have a fan," he said.
She blinked at him, not comprehending.
"Your colleague Ricardo has a message for you, apparently," he explained.
"Ricardo," she repeated, looking toward the door in concern. "Something must be wrong."
"I'm sure everything's fine," her uncle assured her. "Don't you like the wine?" he added, directing her attention back to her glass.
She was too distracted, however, by the sound of the heavy front door opening in the foyer to take another sip. Training her ears to the tread of footsteps, she kept her gaze glued to the doorway until Ricardo stepped into the room followed by Elliot.
Her colleague's intent, dark gaze had her gripping the arms of her chair, preparing to rise. But then she glimpsed the pistol Elliot aimed at Ricardo's back, and her mouth fell open. "Oh," she exclaimed.
"Elliot, put that away," her uncle ordered on a long-suffering note. "I'm so sorry, sir," he added, rising belatedly to greet the newcomer. "My bodyguard is overzealous in his duties. Please, join us." He beckoned Ricardo closer to the table. "Have a seat. I'll have a servant bring you a plate."
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Ricardo replied. He approached Maddy's seat, and the light of the chandelier fell on his taut features. Maddy didn't know if it was pain bracketing the edges of his mouth—after all he was barely out of the hospital—or whether he conveyed bad news. "Maddy, GEF is trying to get a message to you," he relayed, explaining the reason for his presence though her phone should have rung if they'd been trying to call her.
"Your father has suffered a stroke," he added gently.
"No." She shook her head in denial.
"I volunteered to get word to you and to fly you to Asunción immediately, so you can get back to him as soon as possible."
Through her shock Maddy heard her uncle protest, "But that's impossible. I just spoke with Lyle less than two hours ago. He sounded perfectly fine."
"He suffered a massive stroke about an hour ago. His state is critical," Ricardo insisted. "Maddy must leave with me as soon as possible."
His urgent stare drove home the seriousness of her father's condition. Maddy pushed her chair back and came unsteadily to her feet. The food she'd just swallowed threatened to return.
Ricardo caught her elbow, steadying her on her feet and drawing her inexorably toward the door.
Her uncle remained seated, a frown of deep concern upon his face.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Paul." Maddy met his gaze over her shoulder. "I have to go."
He sent her a faint nod. Still in his seat, he watched as Ricardo hurried her out of the room.
Ricardo's stride lengthened as they entered the hallway and headed for the home's enormous double doors. Hearing footsteps behind them, Maddy pulse leaped to see Elliot stalking them, a scowl on his face, his pistol trained on their backs. Ricardo pulled the door open and pushed her outside, where the sky had already darkened to a bruised hue.
"This way," he hissed, shutting the door in Elliot's face and tugging Maddy across the semi-lit yard toward the exterior wall and the wrought iron gate. It stood open, with the Jeep parked just inside. Someone was sitting in the driver's seat.
Behind them, the door of the house creaked open, and Ricardo pulled Maddy into a trot.
"Run," he urged, but dread had turned her legs to rubber leaving her less than coordinated, and her thoughts swam in confusion. Why was Elliot pursuing them?
At last they reached the Jeep. Ricardo snatched open the passenger door, threw the seat forward, and all but tossed her into the back before hopping up front.
As she settled into the rear seat, Maddy recognized the man behind the wheel. "Sam!" she exclaimed. Mystification undermined her delight at seeing him so unexpectedly. "What are you doing here?"
"Keep your head down," he warned with the barest glance over his shoulder.
Ricardo hadn't even shut the door behind himself before the engine whined and the Jeep flew into reverse, shooting out of the gate tail-first.
Maddy groped for her seat belt. Why on earth was Sam even here? And why were both men behaving like their very lives were in danger?
The Jeep braked abruptly then lurched forward, tires spinning on the dirt road before gaining purchase and shooting them swiftly away. Maddy braved a peek through the rear window and caught a glimpse of Elliot at the gate, pistol raised as if to shoot.
But they were safely out of range now, barreling down the winding hill that she'd traversed in her uncle's car two hours earlier.
* * *
"What is it, Elliot?" Paul demanded. He sat at the table, cellphone pressed to his ear, willing Lyle to answer his call. Something about Maddy's abrupt departure smacked of conspiracy.
Elliot's pen had run out of ink. Giving up on scribbling a note, the giant tossed the implement onto the table and spoke with his pronounced lisp. "I daw dat navy deaw in da caw."
For once, Paul understood right away what his bodyguard said. "You saw the Navy SEAL? The one I recognized from the party photos on Facebook?"
They'd shared a similar conversation the night Paul had met with the SEAL task unit about the plight of Well 23. Elliot grunted his assent.
"Damn it!" Paul thrust an accusing finger in the former wrestler's face. "This is your fault," he declared. "I told you he might have recognized you the other night. I should have known your fame would be a liability. What if he suspects who's behind the shooting?" Paul shoved back his chair and pushed to his feet. "Why are you just standing there?" he bellowed. "Go get the car ready. We have to stop them before that man's testimony ruins everything!"
Elliot gave a nod and bolted in the direction of the five-car garage.
With a heavy sigh, Paul leaned his weight onto the table. His thoughts raced before him. Had the SEAL conveyed his suspicions yet to Lyle Scott? Why else would Lyle not be taking Paul's calls? They'd been best friends for decades. Hell, they would have been equal partners but for the fact it was Lyle's money that had financed their oil business.
Paul, however, had been the one to find the most lucrative areas for drilling, including the untapped energy stores of El Chaco, Paraguay. Without his instincts, Scott Oil Corporation would never have prospered and flourished the way it had. In the back of Paul's mind had lurked the certainty that, one day, his devotion would pay off, and Lyle would pursue his political aspirations, leaving him in charge.
Sure enough, he had. And now that Paul's power and wealth were unparalleled, he had discovered an unyielding determination to retain what he had earned, no matter the cost.
He could never relinquish the reins of control back to Lyle. Just as he could not have allowed his little sister to persuade her husband not to drill in El Chaco simply because it would harm the stinking environment. Some things had to be
done, regardless of the hardship it placed on others, especially if a profit might be made. Paul refused to let his newfound elevated status slip from his grasp when he had labored all his life to make Scott Oil as lucrative as it could possibly be.
He sought to reassure himself. How likely was it that the testimony, practically hearsay of a stranger, could threaten a lifetime bond? Not likely at all. Still, Paul couldn't take the risk. Whatever it took to stop the SEAL, he had to do.
* * *
"What is going on?" Maddy demanded as they sped pell-mell down the dark road. "I thought you left Paraguay today," she said to Sam.
Before he could answer Ricardo twisted in his seat to look back at her. "Maddy, I lied to you. Your father didn't have a heart attack."
Relief blended with confusion, putting her thoughts in a tailspin. "He didn't? Why—why on earth would you make that up?"
Sam answered on Ricardo's behalf. "To get you away from your uncle."
"My uncle?" Was that why he'd stayed behind? "What's wrong with my uncle?"
Tension seemed to radiate from Sam's stiffly held body as he guided the Jeep down the dark, winding road. "Remember the man who tried shooting your father at the party?" he asked.
"Of course." How could she forget?
"He's your uncle's bodyguard."
It took Maddy a minute to associate Elliot with the shadowy figure Sam had wrestled with in the woods.
"I thought he looked familiar when your uncle met with my task unit last week," Sam continued. "But it took some extra intel to make the connection."
They all braced themselves as he took a hair-pin turn on two tires.
Goose bumps stitched over every inch of Maddy's skin as she paused to consider his words. If her uncle's bodyguard had tried to kill her father, then that would mean...
"I don't believe you," she said. His allegation threatened the very foundation of her existence. It just wasn't possible.
He tore his gaze from the road to glance into the mirror at her. "I wouldn't make this up, Maddy," he said with pity in his voice.
Danger Close (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 1) Page 18
