Captive of Fate

by Lindsay McKenna

  Captive of Fate

  Lindsay McKenna

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Also by Lindsay McKenna

  Chapter One

  “Alanna, I want you to fly down to Costa Rica right away.” Senator Jameson Thornton frowned darkly, pushing a yellow legal pad around on the top of his large, mahogany desk. He peered up at his special assistant, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn together. “You’re my South American expert, and this is your chance to investigate something big.”

  Alanna suppressed a tired sigh. It was late Friday afternoon, and it had been one hell of a trying week. Well, now she had an explanation for that long-distance phone call from the Costa Rican minister. Thornton had been the ambassador to that country at one time and had maintained a parental interest in it ever since. She sat down, flipping open her notebook. “Big in what way, Senator?”

  Thornton pushed his heavy, aging body forward, resting his bulk on the desk. “An earthquake hit the heart of Costa Rica two days ago. Several mountain villages in the coffee district have been devastated—the loss of life has been terrible, and the number of injured is constantly rising. Our government has sent down a medical relief effort headed up by our mutual enemy: Colonel Breckenridge.”

  She looked up, her green eyes widening at the mention of the name. Her heart skipped a beat as she allowed the information to soak into her fatigued brain. In nearly two years’ working for Thornton, Alanna had rarely heard the Marine officer mentioned without undisguised anger and animosity. After all, Colonel Breckenridge was responsible for the death of the senator’s only son, Tim. And over the years, Alanna had grown to loathe the phantom military officer almost as much as her boss did.

  A catlike smile graced the senator’s fleshy features. “That’s right, Alanna. I’ve got him exactly where I want him this time. And you’re going to fly down there tonight and confirm the evidence already in our hands. God, how I’ve waited for this.”

  She pushed her dark, walnut-colored hair away from her face, sending the shoulder-length tresses back across her shoulders. “I don’t understand….” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. She had already put in nearly seventy hours this week, and all she wanted to do was retreat to her Georgetown apartment for a well-deserved forty-eight hours of rest and relaxation.

  “That earthquake occurred yesterday near Chirripo Grande, the highest peak in Costa Rica. A little village by the name of San Dolega was severely hit, and nearly three thousand people are cut off and homeless. There are reports of a high death rate among the injured, and the government is fearing an epidemic on the heels of the devastation. Apparently the Organization of American States has mobilized to send relief. The U.S. will participate, of course.” He hesitated, his brown eyes narrowing. “Some fool assigned Colonel Breckenridge as our representative to the relief effort, and he has been placed in charge of all field operations.”

  “Is he qualified?” she asked.

  “Who knows? It’s just another ploy of the Defense Department to build a closer alliance between our military and the Costa Rican police force. If you ask me, a civilian agency should have been put in charge…. But that’s neither here nor there. Did you see the gentleman who just left?”

  Harried, she gave a quick shake of her head.

  “He’s a missionary from Costa Rica. He flew up here with evidence that a large part of the medical supplies intended for the relief effort is being stolen. Look here,” he urged, pulling several splintered wooden crate slats from behind his chair. He pointed to the black lettering. “The missionary obtained these from their sister mission in Nicaragua. The crates were found in the abandoned camp of a leftist guerrilla organization. Looks like our Colonel Breckenridge has started a little black market racket selling supplies meant for those hungry and sick villagers.”

  She cringed inwardly, knowing her next question would probably aggravate him. “Senator, are you sure Colonel Breckenridge is involved?”

  “Couldn’t be more positive, Alanna. And that’s where you come in. I’ve got you scheduled on the next available flight out of Bolling Air Force Base aboard a MATS C-130. It’s due to take off for San Jose in two hours, and you’re going to be on it. Peggy’s processing all the papers you’ll need as far as introduction goes. I’ve informed the right people in the government you’re coming, and you’ll be given carte blanche to get up to San Dolega and begin your investigation. The fact that you speak Spanish is a plus, as is your familiarity with the political and economic environment of Central America.” He smiled with satisfaction. “I made a wise decision in hiring you as my special assistant, Alanna. I know you’ve sometimes chaffed at the more mundane duties around here on the Hill, but I think you’ll jump at this chance to get right into the middle of the action. If I didn’t have this filibuster coming up on Monday, I’d be flying down there with you.”

  She blinked. “You want me to investigate Colonel Breckenridge and his relief efforts by myself?”

  “Yes, I do. And I know you’ll do a thorough job. I’ve got my chauffeur out front. You had best hurry home and throw some clothes into a suitcase. Peggy will have a travel package waiting for you at the airplane. When you get to San Jose, call me.”

  * * *

  This isn’t happening, she thought dully, leaning back against the rough corded cargo netting. The throbbing hum of the four prop jet engines lulled her close to sleep. She was cramped into a small space with twenty-four other passengers, military personnel who were also flying down to Costa Rica. Everywhere she looked in the wide-bodied fuselage, huge wooden crates were stacked to the ceiling. There was a tense quiet among the others, and Alanna had pulled herself into a tight ball, discouraging any talk. Her head ached from the events of the day. It seemed as though the entire situation had toppled on her without any warning.

  Absently, Alanna rubbed her left arm where she had been given several vaccination shots before boarding the plane. Damn you, Breckenridge, she thought. You’ve got to be even more of a monster than Senator Thornton’s said. She leaned against the webbing, closing her eyes. She knew very little about Colonel Matthew Breckenridge, she realized. She had been told that he worked over at the Pentagon. And, of course, she knew that he had been responsible for Tim Thornton’s death when Tim served in the Marine Corps during the closing days of the Vietnam War. But that was all really, though he had often been the subject of the senator’s angry discourses. She moved stiffly, unsure of the task looming before her. She was being sent down to prove once and for all the Marine’s guilt and catch him in the act of breaking the law. Once she was able to establish his part in the ploy, Thornton would undoubtedly smear Breckenridge’s career from the Pentagon to the Senate with the greatest of pleasure….

  * * *

  Alanna awoke with a jerk, sitting up wide-eyed as an Air Force officer leaned over, touching her shoulder. “We’re here, Ms. McIntire. All personnel have been ordered to disembark so we can start unloading the supplies. Could you—”

  “Sure,” she murmured, rising unsteadily. My God, how long did I sleep in that contorted position? Turning, she saw that the entire rear area of the C-130 had opened like gargantuan jaws. The boarding ramp was already in place, and a small group of men waited miserably in the rain for the unloading to commence. Grabbing her briefca
se and one small bag, she stretched in an attempt to feel more alert, giving a cursory glance down the boarding ramp where two men were engaged in an animated discussion. As Alanna approached, she recognized the copilot and heard angry words being traded between him and another man dressed in olive green fatigues.

  A curtain of rain covered the airport in the washed-out morning light. Alanna regretted wearing her leather shoes and wished mightily for boots instead. Well, at least she had a raincoat and slacks on—they would help keep her dry as she made a dash for customs.

  “Just who is this McIntire?” a voice demanded loudly.

  Alanna halted, raising her chin, her eyes moving to the two men at the bottom of the ramp. The copilot turned and pointed directly at her, and she felt her heartbeat automatically quicken.

  “That’s her, Colonel. And I suggest you talk to her instead of me. I had nothing to do with bumping your man from this flight. Maybe she can give you more information.” The copilot saluted and made an abrupt about-face, his features contorted with barely concealed anger.

  Alanna remained frozen as the officer in jungle fatigues turned menacingly upon her, taking four swift strides to where she stood. A hundred sudden impressions bombarded her, ripping away the exhaustion that had followed her from Washington, D.C. His face wore the countenance of a hawk, with gray eyes that looked extraordinarily merciless and cold. He was not tall but lean and wiry and moved with the boneless grace of the panthers that roamed the Costa Rican mountains. The deep bronze of his skin only emphasized his rugged facial features. His mouth was compressed into a thin line of displeasure, and Alanna stared fixedly up at him, completely stunned by his demeanor.

  “Are you McIntire?” he demanded.

  She opened her mouth and then closed it, blinking. Why did she feel like a child reporting to a teacher? Rapidly, she regrouped her forces, noting the black insignia on the collar of his uniform. Unfamiliar with the military, she had to search her memory for what the symbol meant. “Yes,” she answered, her voice softer than usual.

  “Just what the hell is going on here? Where’s Sergeant Haskell? Who gave you permission to bump my man? Don’t you realize we’ve got three thousand people up on a mountainside who are starving and in need of medical attention? Who in the hell are you, some damn reporter?”

  She groped to find her voice.

  “Show me your papers,” he ordered tightly.

  “Papers?” she repeated stupidly. Her heart pounded like a caged bird. She cringed inwardly at the utter masculinity of the man who stood over her with his hands resting tensely on his hips. She could smell the dankness of the jungle around him, the musky scent of his body, and realized his uniform was drenched thoroughly by the rain. Muddy red clay clung to his black, booted feet, and the lower part of his bloused trousers. Despite the harshness of his features at that moment, she saw dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes. His hair was a raw umber color, typically short in keeping with the military fashion. The cap he wore rested low on his forehead, the bill half-concealing his fiery, silver eyes. As she stood there for those long, interminable seconds, she saw his mouth lose its imperious line and soften somewhat. Idiotically, among all her colliding thoughts at that moment, Alanna found herself thinking it was generous and well shaped. She had expected his mouth to dip harshly at the corners, but to her surprise the lines there curved upward, indicating that he laughed or smiled a great deal. It made the planes of his face less threatening, and she sighed inwardly, realizing on a gut level that he might be human after all.

  “Papers,” he repeated levelly, taking great pains to control the obvious anger in his voice. “Your passport, for instance. Because if you’re a reporter, I’m hauling you—”

  “I’m not a reporter,” she blurted out, becoming used to his abruptness. She dug in her purse, searching for the letters of authorization, her hand trembling as she found them.

  “What, then? A photographer? God, I’ve got enough of you damn people up there at the base camp right now. I don’t need a woman on top of everything else.”

  Alanna felt a sliver of courage returning. This man’s abrasive manner was like a bucket of cold water, and she was beginning to come alive beneath his blistering salvo of demands. She opened the letters of authorization and showed them to him. “I’m Senator Thornton’s special assistant, Alanna McIntire, and I’m down here at his express direction. Who are you?”

  He looked up from the papers, studying her with a renewed intensity that made her shiver. What was happening? She felt lightheaded and at the same time panicky beneath his glare. His mouth thinned.

  “I’m Colonel Matt Breckenridge.”

  Alanna’s eyes widened. So, this was the man. The Marine who caused Tim’s death by allowing his company to be overrun. But he didn’t look inept. He exuded confidence and masculine authority. No one could possibly mistake him for anything less than a man who was very much in control of the situation. And other people’s lives. Hers, for instance. She quickly jammed the papers back into her purse.

  “You’re the person I want to see, then,” she explained.

  “Lady, as far as I’m concerned, you can make an about-face and return to Washington on this bucket of bolts. Your friend the senator obviously pulled a hell of a lot of strings to get you aboard this plane because my radio communications specialist was the one you bumped from the flight.” He sucked in a deep breath, gripping her arm and giving her a little shake. “Do you understand what that means, Miss McIntire? Without Sergeant Haskell I’m going to continue having radio transmission problems between San Jose, the base camp, and San Dolega. That sergeant is a genius. He could establish communications despite this perpetual rain and fog. And he could find a way to train these imbecile police officers as radio operators. Let me put it in terms you politicians up on the Hill might understand a little more clearly: numbers. Not numbers of voters, granted. But numbers of wounded and sick people who need to be med-evacked out of that Godforsaken village. I have sporadic radio relays. I might as well fly carrier pigeons. At least they’d stand a chance of getting through.” He released her, taking a step back. “Dammit!” he snarled. “Haskell also speaks Spanish, and I desperately need an interpreter.”

  Her arm tingled from his grip. Somewhere in the back of her confused, stunned mind, Alanna realized he could have hurt her. Instead, he had monitored the amount of pressure he’d exerted. She gulped, the importance of Sergeant Haskell sinking in. Maybe Colonel Breckenridge had a right to be upset under the circumstances. A wave of guilt surged through her, and she felt her face grow warm with a blush. She frowned, uncomfortable that, despite her twenty-nine years, a blush could give her away. More than anything, she wanted to hide all her reactions from this man.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Civilians and politicians never know before they act. I don’t accept your lame apology, Miss McIntire. You are unessential personnel as far as I’m concerned. Excess baggage. Useless.” He jerked off his cap, running his long fingers through his hair. Alanna had expected a crew cut. After all, Senator Thornton had painted him as a gung-ho Marine officer. Instead, his hair was neatly tapered to the base of his neck, and a rebellious strand dipped momentarily down across his forehead.

  Alanna compressed her full lips. “I said I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m as confused about all this as you are. I had no idea I was coming down here until the last minute….”

  Breckenridge jammed the cap back on his head, exhaling and glancing out the open bay at the continuing pall of rain. “Yeah, I bet you are, but not half as sorry as those poor souls up there on that damn mountain.”

  Her heart wrenched as she heard a note of anguish in his tone. For a brief instant, the official mask of the Marine Corps slipped away from his features, and she saw a man who was beyond fatigue…beyond hope. Alanna chewed on her lower lip, suddenly at odds with herself. Senator Thornton had accused him of being a machine. A ruthless automaton bent upon destroying anything and anyone who got in
his way. But he didn’t appear to be that robot right now.

  “Look, maybe I can be of some help. I do speak Spanish quite fluently and—”

  He shot her a flat look of disgust. “An aide to Senator Thornton offering help? I’d rather take a peace offering from an enemy carrying a grenade.”

  Alanna’s temper flared. “I’m not your enemy!”

  “Aren’t you?” he asked wearily, standing with his shoulders slumped forward, his head down for a moment. “God, this is all I need.” He gave a helpless, bitter laugh. “Well, I guess I should be thankful that the old man didn’t come down here himself. At least you’re beautiful. You’re the only thing I’ve seen in the last two rotten days that makes me feel like there’s still some hope left….”

  She bridled, confused again by his sudden change in manner. One moment he was ripping her apart; the next, complimenting her. The man was unfathomable. Alanna gripped her bag tightly and muttered, “You’re stuck with me, Colonel, whether or not you or I like it.”

  Matt looked at her. “What?”

  “I’m down here to investigate reported losses of medicine and supplies from the relief efforts.”

  He shook his head, a cold smile replacing his sadness. “There’s always some pilferage, Miss McIntire. That’s to be expected.”

  Alanna steeled herself. “I’m not talking about petty theft, Colonel.”

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck in a weary gesture. “Yeah, I’m sure the senator would like to pin my hide to the wall by accusing me of some stupid black market ruse. Well,” he said, “you’re barking up the wrong tree. Whoever told him we were losing substantial amounts of supplies is inflating numbers.”

  “That’s for me to decide,” she answered firmly.

  “Not on my time it isn’t.”

  “I’m not asking for your time.”

  “Good. Then be a smart girl and stay in the capital here for a few days, go shopping, and then take a jet back to D.C. I don’t have time for a meddling woman in any way, shape or form. Especially one that thinks she is a detective out to prove I’m somehow involved in peddling relief supplies needed by those poor earthquake victims.”