Shattered (28 page)

The mission was one Zach and Quinn had done numerous times before, both in practice and in real life.

The plan was to use Finnegan’s Wake as a launch station, then take the IBS on an OTH (over the horizon) night transit of 41.5 kilometers, land on the beach, then cache the boat so it wouldn’t be found. Then head across the border and link up with Garrett and Kirby Campbell.

They were both aware that this was easier said than done. Although he’d never considered himself a particularly religious man, abiding to the tenet that there were no atheists in foxholes—or Zodiacs—Zach accepted Mike Gannon’s offer of a prayer before they set off. He may no longer be a priest, but there was always a chance that God might be more likely to listen to him than to either SEAL.

The inscrutable man known only as Conn did not join them. Just stayed on the bridge, nearly invisible in his black sweater and black jeans. Had he not come well recommended, and just happened to own the only available yacht in the region, it wasn’t as if they’d had a lot of choices. If it had been just him and Quinn, they might have done a helo drop from a Black Hawk onto the beach. But concerned that a copter might call more attention to them, and having no time to bring Gannon up to speed, this had seemed the most logical plan.

Unfortunately, the winds had picked up and the storm that the satellite weather maps had shown stalled over Costa Rica had moved east, barreling into the Caribbean.

The clouds covering the damn sickle moon was a good thing.

The drenching rain and rough seas kicked up by the wind were not.

Unlike Rangers or Delta Special Forces, SEALs worked in small teams, and were not designed to seize or hold a position, or fight a long-term battle. As a rule, their job was to seek out a target, destroy it decisively and silently, then disappear back into the ocean. Which was just the way Zach had always liked it. It was also, along with so many deaths, what had made that battle in the Kush such a bitch.

The rain was pouring, hitting the military assault suits they were wearing like bullets. Unlike the wet suits they’d worn during their long ago BUD/S training, the MAS was lightweight, boasting latex wrist and neck seals and a waterproof zipper. Meant to be worn over BDUs, it had been designed for surface swimming.

With the feet built into the dry suit, a SEAL could wear boots or even sneakers over it, then, rather than have to take the time to change into cammies when he hit the beach, he had only to peel off the MAS, stuff it into its bag, and, hooyah, he was all set for land travel.

The swells rose higher and higher, and Zach started getting worried about some of the supplies they were carrying being washed overboard. The MREs they could do without, especially in a jungle teaming with available food. The electronic equipment was another matter. Despite being lashed down, if the IBS swamped or tipped, it could be lost, which was exactly what had happened during Operation Urgent Fury in Grenada.

“Damn,” Quinn said, pointing starboard. “We’ve got company at three o’clock.”

What appeared to be a patrol boat, appearing an eerie green through Zach’s NVGs, was running parallel to land, searchlights sweeping from shore to sea.

With the Zodiac trapped between the shoreline and the boat.

They were already running without lights. Zach immediately cut the gas engine. The Zodiac went silent. Bobbing helplessly on the rising, white-capped swells. All three men on the IBS, clad in black, held their collective breaths.

While Costa Rica’s constitution banned an army, which was partly why Zach had chosen it for a landing zone, it did have a paramilitary security force mostly used to patrol the borders. It also had a coast guard, which, nearly a decade earlier, had entered into a maritime agreement with the U.S. Coast Guard, designed mainly to curtail drug trafficking into the United States.

While unfamiliar with the other country’s cutters, Zach assumed, like so many U.S. patrol boats, it was carrying a single medium-caliber artillery gun and a variety of lighter secondary armaments, such as machine guns. In a worst-case scenario, it might also possess torpedo capabilities.

Since he doubted the patrol boat would be anywhere nearly as electronically equipped as one owned by the U.S. military, Zach hoped that the wind, rain, and swells would combine to create enough sea clutter to confuse the boat’s radar and allow them to remain undetected.

The patrol boat came closer.

Slowed.

Came closer still, near enough that Zach could see the crewmen on deck. And the lights on in the pilothouse, casting the captain into sharp relief.

While he suspected that Quinn was doing that spooky sniper thing, where he could control his heartbeat, allowing him to actually pause it long enough to nail his target, Zach’s own heart was pounding so hard against his ribs he was amazed the men on that PB couldn’t hear it even over the wind and surf.

The standoff—and it was indeed that, even if the other guys didn’t know it—seemed to last forever.

Then, finally, the patrol boat moved on, continuing down the coastline. But not before its wake washed over them.

Which only made them even wetter.

Figuring that any time you were out on a stormy sea where you weren’t supposed to be, in the middle of the night, and you didn’t die was a good thing, Zach let out a long breath.

He wasn’t the only one.

They waited, tossed violently around on the swells for another full five minutes. Zach fatalistically watched the MREs wash overboard. Fortunately, Gannon managed to nab the case with the radio right before it washed over the side.

Finally, when they seemed to be totally alone again, Quinn went to restart the engine.

“Shit,” he shouted into the wind.

Then turned toward Zach, who hadn’t seen the former SEAL sniper look that frustrated since the day they’d kept coming under attack while dragging Shane up the mountains to that refugee camp in Pakistan.

“The PB’s wake flooded the engine,” he reported. “We’re fucking dead in the water.”

They were on the beach. Shaken, not stirred, Kirby thought, which, despite the seriousness of their situation—or more likely because of it—made her giggle.

“Christ.”

They’d run, for how long, Shane didn’t know. Which was really weird, because he’d been trained to know such things. Then again, whenever he’d drilled, he hadn’t been dragging along the woman he loved.

Finally winded, his hip aching like a bitch from running on the uneven slope down to the beach, he collapsed on the sand, Kirby right along with him.

“Well, so much for a relaxing seaside dinner,” he said.

“I didn’t even get to finish my drink,” she complained.

“Just as well. Wouldn’t have been all that helpful for either of us to have been drunk.”

“Like one stupid girly drink could make me drunk,” she scoffed. Then took his face in her palms. “At least not anywhere near what I feel when I’m with you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Can’t say I don’t bring a bang to the party.”

She laughed. “God, I thought for sure we were about to get our tickets punched.”

“Never happen,” he said, turning his head and kissing her palm. Which was scraped from one of those times she’d stumbled to the sand. He vaguely remembered dragging her back up onto her feet so they could keep on running. “We’re each other’s good luck charms.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.” She fell back onto the damp sand and looked up at the cloud-scudded midnight sky.

“It’s true.” He stretched out, as well, lying on his side, and drew her closer. “We make one helluva team, Dr. Campbell.”

She snuggled closer, even as she looked back in the direction they’d come. Strangely, there were no flashing lights, nothing to indicate that any police or army officials (and in this country, they were the same entity) had shown up.

“Something’s odd,” she murmured. “Why do you think the guerillas had the balls to attack a place inside the city? In Vasquez’s stronghold?”

“Maybe the balance of power’s shifting.” He plucked a piece of seaweed from her hair, which smelled of smoke and was damp from the beer and wet sand. “Something may have happened we’re not up to speed on.”

“God, if the president’s losing power, what does that mean for Rachel?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m mainly just along to fly the copter when we get her out. And because Quinn told me you’d insisted on coming along.”

As bad as things were, had been, and still could be, Kirby found herself smiling at that idea.

“You never should have let me get away.”

“Roger that.”

He rolled over on top of her, fitting his strong male angles against her curves, settling between her legs in a way that sent heat surging through her.

“This is just an adrenaline rush,” she said, even as her hands fretted down his back. His shirt had scorched through, undoubtedly from the grenade blast, allowing her to feel the ridges of muscle beneath his warm skin. “A natural physical reaction to danger.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the phenomenon. But in this case, it’s a natural physical reaction to you.”

Muscle memory, she remembered him saying.

Then, just as she’d wanted him to, he lowered his head and kissed her, a deep, passionate kiss that sent her reeling, tumbling helplessly, as if she’d been caught in a powerful riptide.

Kirby heard a low, throaty moan she didn’t recognize as her own, was only dimly aware of his hands digging into her waist as he pressed his hard body against her, pushing her deeper into the soft sand.

“I hate to break this up,” a droll female voice stated. “But I believe we had some business to conduct?”

Shane muttered a curse. Took time to give Kirby one last hard, tongue-tangling kiss before rolling off her now boneless body. He sat up and looped his arms around his bent knees.

“Agent Patterson, I believe?”

“That would be me.”

“You were late.”

“I was detained. Which was just as well, given that a war broke out in the restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Shane drawled as Kirby sat up beside him. “We sorta noticed that when the shooting started. So what the hell’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.” She was wearing a trim gray jacket that matched her silk slacks. Unlike Kirby, who’d fallen under the spell of those pretty shoes, she’d had the sense to wear flat-heel shoes, which had ended up much more practical for walking on the beach.

“Rumors are that Vasquez is trying to leave the country. Which, naturally, has things a bit destabilized.”

“Yeah, I can tell the country’s been real stable up until now,” Shane said.

She shrugged. “There are levels of stability. Admittedly, this is the worst I’ve seen it.”

“Why would he leave?” Kirby asked. “Castillo hasn’t captured power yet, the heavy drug dealers are still in Vasquez’s pocket, so except for the possibility of Madrid’s return, it seems he’s still holding a winning hand.”

“He was. Until the photos of mass graves being discovered in the jungle showed up on CNN.”

“His death squads have probably killed thousands,” Kirby said. “As horrific as this is, why would it be different?”

“Because the graves are reported to be of an entire village of men, women, and children. Now, at this point, there’s no way of knowing if the photos are fake or not.

“Hell, they could be graves from Iraq or Somalia or some country where its leaders practice mass genocide, and merely Photoshopped onto a jungle location to undermine Vasquez’s power. They were also enough to get the U.S. government, along with several human rights organizations interested.”

“Again, stories of the regime’s brutality are not exactly news,” Kirby pointed out.

“True again. But the ICJ just held an emergency press conference and announced they’re sending people here to investigate.”

“Well.” Kirby tried to wrap her mind around how having the U.N. International Court of Justice investigating Vasquez would affect Rachel. “While the idea of trying the bastard in the Hague is appealing, that doesn’t exactly solve our immediate problem.”

“No.” The station chief retrieved a set of car keys from the alligator bag she was wearing crossed over her shoulder. “Which is why you’re going to continue on with your plan. These are the keys to a white Toyota parked in your hotel garage. It’s on the second level, slot C-NINE. You’ll find everything you need inside it.”

She pulled out a key card. “Your room has been switched with the one next door. We’ve seen that the necessities were taken from your luggage and transferred. We’ve also given you a bottle of hair dye, to make you less noticeable as you play tourist.

“The NOCs impersonating you will leave within the next two hours. To meet the rest of the team at the ruins, I suggest you leave right after breakfast at eight o’clock.”

“That still leaves Dr. Moore in a precarious situation for another night,” Kirby argued.

“At this point in time, Dr. Campbell, there’s no one in the country who isn’t in a precarious situation,” Gwendolyn Patterson pointed out. “Dr. Moore is as safe as she’d be on the streets right now. And certainly safer than you were in that restaurant.

“But along with the eight armed guards who are definitely not friendlies, and an armed-to-the-teeth children’s brigade inside, that leaves one lone man who’s ours. Even if you and Garrett were to reach the clinic before morning, and that’s doubtful, considering that roadblocks are undoubtedly going up as I speak, you’d end up getting yourselves killed.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s better, and safer, for all concerned, including all those who’ve gone out on a limb to help in this situation, if you wait here tonight, then catch up with your SEAL partners tomorrow.

“Meanwhile, the instability may in some way prove helpful, if the guards at the clinic hear about the photos and decide this is a good time to return to the civilian population. If it turns out Vasquez does get out of the country, you’ll probably find a great many of his army headed for the borders, as well.”

“What about the embassy?” Shane asked. “Are you staying?”

“For now. We have our Marine guards who are very, very good at what they do, and are well trained to give their own lives, if necessary, to keep us safe in the event locals decide to take to the streets and start riots.

“If we’re fortunate enough to escape that, and the photos turn out to be real, we’ll want to have our own people here overseeing the investigation.”

“In order to orchestrate a cover-up about our own involvement in shady petroleum deals with the Vasquez government,” Shane guessed.

She gave him a bland look. “The U.S. does not engage in internal politics in the countries where it maintains diplomatic agencies. However, it is also in our national interest to see that Vasquez is deposed. With the least amount of disruption to the country’s citizens or its economy.”

“Oh, my God.” Kirby combed a hand through her hair, dislodging sand and seaweed and she hated to think what else. “The rumors are true. You’re bringing back Madrid to take over the leadership gap.”

“The U.S. does not engage in internal politics in its host nations,” she repeated.

Shane shook his head. “You people never learn, do you? You already replaced one despot with Vasquez—”

She tossed her head. “I was still in school when he took over.”

“Only after the other guy was deposed,” Shane corrected. “Now you’re about to do the same thing, having no way of knowing what kind of leader Madrid will even be. You know what they say—”

“Ah.” The CIA station chief folded her arms. “This is where you fall back on the old cliché and remind me that those who do not remember history are condemned to repeat it.”

“No. This is where I tell you that those who paraphrase George Santayana are condemned to misquote him. Actually, what he said was that those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

“It wasn’t such a bad idea when the guy came up with it in 1905, and it’s probably an even more important consideration during these days when we can’t seem to get away from the urge to nation build.”

“Excuse me.” Her back stiffened. “There just happen to be those who believe the ideals of democracy, popular sovereignty, individual rights, and the rule of law are universal.”

“Fuck it.” Although it wasn’t easy, and he was honestly worried about his leg folding and embarrassing the hell out of him, Shane pushed himself to his feet. “I cannot believe that after having been shot at, literally blown out of a building, I’m out on some beach in the fucking dark, arguing philosophy and international political policy with a government spook.

“Here’s one more Santayana quote for you, lady, then Dr. Campbell and I are out of here: ‘Fanaticism consists in redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim.’ ”

He held down a hand to Kirby. “Ready to leave?”

As she stood up, using Shane’s hand for balance, without risking unsettling his balance, she rewarded him with the kind of “my hero” smile the girl always used to give the Duke at the end of the movie. “Actually, I was ready ten minutes ago.”

They walked together, down the beach, hand in hand.

Neither looked back.