Shattered (7 page)

“But we were living in our own insane sandbox universe,” he said. “What we had in Iraq would never hold up in the real world.”

“You don’t know that.”

Kirby had never begged for anything in her life. But she was willing to beg now, if that’s what it took, for him to at least open up to the possibility that they might have a future together.

“Yeah.” That distant look returned to his eyes, which drifted to the door, as if suggesting she might just want to take this opportunity to walk away. “I do.”

“Well.” Kirby was an intelligent woman. She had, after all, graduated in the top ten percent of her medical school class at USUHS. There was also the little fact that he couldn’t have made himself more clear if he’d started waving semaphores in her face. Go. Away. Now. “So . . . I guess that’s that.”

“I really am sorry.” He glanced up at the TV, which was broadcasting some stupid baseball game from the States.

Boston was losing to the Yankees in the eighth inning.

And she was losing him.

Again.

This time, Kirby realized, forever.

She blinked to fight off the mutinous tears stinging at the back of her lids. “Well, I’m really glad you’re doing so well, and I’ve no doubt you’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time at all.”

Fit as a fiddle? Oh, shit. Had she really said that? The last person she’d ever known to use that expression had been her grandfather Campbell, who, as an Army Air Corps tail gunner, had flown thirty missions over Germany during World War II.

“So, I guess I’ll be going.”

In a perfect world, the cowboy SOAR pilot would’ve said, “Dammit to hell, Kirby Campbell, you’re the only woman for me, so let’s get married and we’ll go back to the States and start our lives all over again. Together.

“Maybe we’ll raise ourselves a passel of little cowboys and cowgirls on a ranch back in Oregon.” He hadn’t told her much about growing up, but he had mentioned riding bulls in local rodeos.

“Or if you’d rather go back home to San Diego, we’ll buy ourselves a tidy little cottage somewhere close to the beach with a picket fence and a swing in the back-yard for our kids. Because if you walk out that door, you’ll be taking every reason I have to live right along with you.”

That was what Captain Shane Garrett would say in a perfect world.

Unfortunately, as Kirby had learned the hard way, there were no perfect worlds.

“Thanks for coming all this way just to check on me,” he said instead. “And hey, again, thanks for saving my life.”

She forced a brave smile as she wavered between leaving while she still possessed some small shred of dignity, or climbing up on that bed and strangling him with her bare hands.

“Hey.” Opting for dignity, she forced a light note into her voice. “I was just doing my job.”

She bent down to kiss him. So they’d been lovers. Surely they could leave this emotional train wreck as friends. What could be wrong with a simple good-bye kiss between friends?

Apparently, a lot.

He turned his head at the last second, causing her lips to brush his cheek.

It took every ounce of self-restraint Kirby possessed, but she managed, somehow, to keep from weeping until she was walking back down that long, long hallway.

It was only after she was gone that Shane, proving that even hotshot SOAR Night Stalkers could cry, put his pillow over his face.

Then bawled like a damn baby.

Night Stalkers never quit.

—U.S. Army SOAR motto

Monteleón, Central America

Eighteen months later

The Presidential Palace, which, unlike most architecture in the region, resembled the White House (had the home of every American president since John Adams been painted pink instead of white) sprawled atop a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Ocean. As if banished by presidential decree, the garua, a dense ocean mist that could roll in to cover the capital city of Ciudad Libertad for days at a time, had lifted, allowing spectacular views.

In one direction, the volcanic mountains that had given the country its name loomed, dark and forbidding. In the other direction, a tangerine sun sank into the sea, turning the water to a deep, burnished copper.

The gardens were a riot of color and scents. Servants, wearing embroidered white cotton shirts and black pants, moved silently, pouring wine, serving canapés, lighting the torches as dusk settled over the party. Torches that emitted an insecticide to keep the malaria-carrying mosquitoes away.

The waxy white night-blooming jasmine was beginning to open, its sultry, heady fragrance mingling with the expensive perfumes worn by the women guests and the aroma of sizzling slabs of beef, lobsters, and huge shrimp being grilled by native Indians, seeming of Mayan descent, over a wood-fired parilla.

While most barbecues Kirby had attended growing up back home in San Diego had been casual affairs, President General Juan Duarte Vasquez thrived on ostentation and conspicuous consumption; easy enough when you headed up a country that just happened to have been discovered to be sitting on one of the largest petroleum deposits in Latin America.

That it was beneath a reservation of the country’s remaining indigenous tribes had not seemed to disturb either the president or the oil companies flooding into the country.

Unfortunately, the government—run by Vasquez’s cronies and relatives—had never heard about the economic concept of trickle-down.

Which was why Kirby and the WMR were in Monteleón. As the government became richer, the ordinary people grew increasingly impoverished. Gazing around at the orchid centerpieces and gleaming crystal, china, and gold-plated cutlery, and having walked though the gilded nouveau-Graceland decorated interior to reach the garden party, Kirby decided that surrounded by so much sudden wealth and luxury, guests preferred to remain ignorant of what was happening outside the guarded gates of their palatial homes.

The dinner table conversation was much the same as Donald Trump and his pals might share in New York City. Stocks, bonds, deal making, polo, and shopping. And more shopping. From the blinding bling gracing the ears, throats, and wrists of all the women, Kirby figured diamond mines all over the world must’ve really had to kick into high gear since that first Monteleón gusher blew.

They did not, she noticed, discuss what had originally made them wealthy in the first place: the tall, innocent-looking cocoa plants and opium poppies that brightened up the mountainsides in brilliant streaks of red. Although oil had replaced cocaine and heroin as the biggest national source of income, these privileged few who owned the land allowed the peasants to continue to farm the “white gold” because it was far more profitable for farmer and landowner alike than growing vegetables or coffee.

If the government burned the fields, as the American government wanted, the farmers would become even more impoverished than they were now.

Which, the fear was, would drive all those poor people into the waiting hands of the rebel forces, thus endangering the lives and fortunes of this elite group sitting around the damask-draped table.

Heaven forbid, Kirby thought, they solve their socio-economic problems by simply sharing some of those petroleum dollars with their countrymen.

She was wondering how gauche she’d be considered if she used this rare opportunity to lobby for funds to fight the current measles epidemic, when her host suddenly turned toward her.

As one of the two “honored guests,” she had been seated on the president’s left, while Dr. Rachel Moore, the physician in charge of the WMR clinic, had been given the higher honor position on his right.

“I am very concerned about you, Dr. Campbell,” the president said in the nearly unaccented English she knew he’d acquired during his years in the States, studying law and political science at Harvard.

Kirby found it interesting that he had three accents: the English he used for CNN interviews or at the United Nations, a singsong very correct Spanish he was using tonight with his wealthy friends and hangers-on, and a rougher, more slang-spiced vernacular he used on local television or in speeches when he wanted to appear to his “people” as one of them.

She also couldn’t quite decide if he’d chosen the dress-white military uniform to remind everyone present that he was in control of what several human rights groups had called one of the most brutal militaries in the world, or whether he believed the fruit salad of ribbons and medals adorning his jacket was more suited to a gathering of the rich and mighty than the military fatigues he’d gone back to wearing for his public appearances.

A slight breeze coming off the ocean blew some strands of hair across her eyes. Buying time, she tucked them behind her ear. “Why would that be, Señor Presidente?”

“You and Dr. Moore living alone out there in the jungle.” He directed his response at her breasts, something she’d grown used to since they’d seemed to appear overnight the summer she turned fifteen.

Her blond hair drew enough attention in this country. But in a time when thin was in, even here in Central America, thanks to the influx of U.S. television programs and movies, her curves attracted male interest.

Even when, as now, they were modestly covered in the crisp white blouse she’d tucked into the navy knee-length skirt she’d bought for those rare occasions she was required to actually dress up.

The outfit, which Rachel had pointed out made her look as if she were about to join the U.S. Navy, wasn’t exactly suitable for the occasion. But affairs such as this had never been on her list of fun ways to spend an evening. Formal dinner parties with a dictator were even worse, and Kirby had refused to buy a dress solely for the occasion. Especially when the money could, instead, buy so many more clinic supplies.

And the white blouse was certainly more appropriate than the T-shirt she’d jokingly suggested wearing. The one that read FIGHT HUNGER . . . EAT THE RICH.

“We’re not exactly alone, señor,” she said mildly. “Our clinic is in a village of nearly fifty people.”

“Many of whom are not friends of this government,” he pointed out.

Meaning, she knew, rebels. Or terrorists, depending on whose definition you used. Unfortunately, the line between the two had become increasingly blurred as his propaganda machine continued to pump out misinformation while the leader of the rebel army was certainly no George Washington.

Monteleón had never been a wealthy country. But now, as the divide between rich and poor grew exponentially, more and more locals were daring to speak up. There were, unfortunately, also those with their own agendas willing to take advantage of the growing instability.

“WMR makes it a point not to get involved in local politics,” she said mildly as she lifted a heavy cut-crystal glass and took a sip of ice water. “So I honestly couldn’t tell you what our patients think of anything. Other than their health issues.”

She took another sip.

Considered.

Then decided, What the hell? Go for it.

“Unless it’s that they worry that their children might die of malnutrition. Or starvation. Or even, tragically, of measles, which, if we could only acquire much-needed funds, we could easily inoculate them against,” she said on a rush of words before she could change her mind.

A fiftysomething woman gasped loud enough to be heard in the sudden silence that descended over the room. Her beringed hand flew to her pearl-and-emerald-draped breast.

Far below, the surf crashed against the cliffs; overhead parrots chattered amidst the purple blossoms of the jacaranda trees.

Around the table, everyone seemed to be holding their collective breaths, waiting to see how their president would respond to Kirby’s appalling lack of etiquette.

The president’s black eyes held a hard edge that reminded Kirby that, despite the luxuries he enjoyed now, this was a man who’d been honed by years of guerilla warfare against the previous dictator. Who’d conveniently been ousted by a CIA-engineered coup when that leader had threatened to nationalize the mining industry and kick out the American companies.

Finally, to Kirby’s vast relief, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

The others nervously, dutifully followed suit with noticeably less enthusiasm.

“You American women are always so deliciously outspoken.”

Paying no heed to his wife, who was seated at the other end of the table, he skimmed a finger down the back of her hand, as if he had every right to touch her, however and whenever he wanted.

Which, Kirby considered, he probably thought he did.

“I’d forgotten how appealing that can be.” His midnight black eyes met hers. “Under the right circumstances.”

“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn,” Kirby murmured.

Actually, now that she realized she wasn’t going to be arrested as an enemy of the people, she didn’t mean a word of the apology, but while party manners might not be her strong point, she wasn’t totally lacking in political skills.

“It’s just that on the drive into the city, I was thinking about that speech you gave to the parliament last week.”

After nearly two decades of running the country with an iron fist, he was campaigning to be elected president-for-life. Although he’d killed or scared off all his opponents, rumors persisted that the widow of an assassinated social-reformer husband was planning a return to the country to run against him. Currently living in Guadalajara, Mexico, Josefina Madrid was much beloved by her fellow countrymen.

At least those who weren’t perched at the very small top of the food chain.

“And what speech would that be, Doctor?” he asked.

She would have had to have been deaf not to hear the veiled warning in his tone. Or Rachel Moore’s slight clearing of her throat. Rachel could not be more different from Kirby. Where Kirby could admittedly be impatient, and even impulsive, Rachel was even-tempered and far more likely to think before speaking.

But rather than cause friction, their differences were what made them such a good team. They complemented each other well. And, most importantly, they shared a common goal of helping people who couldn’t help themselves.

Although Kirby had often been called stubborn, Rachel was the rock of WMR in Monteleón, admired for her unrelenting tenacity. Once the former Army National Guard physician made up her mind to do something, neither heaven nor hell, nor all the dictators’ armies in all the world, were going to stop her.

“The speech where you claimed every citizen of Monteleón is deserving of dignity,” she said. “And promised a plan to help the least of your citizens.”

Although the palace may have resembled the White House, the speech hadn’t exactly gone as far as promising life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But it had harked back to the revolutionary roots.

“Measles vaccine is relatively inexpensive,” Kirby stressed. “As is mosquito netting to prevent children from contracting malaria. A healthy population is a stable population,” she tacked on.

She didn’t need to add that at the moment, Monteleón was anything but stable.

“I don’t believe el presidente needs a civics lesson, Dr. Campbell,” the American ambassador, who’d shown up with his female press secretary and had remained silent until now, chided. “Given his educational background.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Rachel agreed quickly, leaping in to keep Kirby from sticking her sandal even further into her mouth. “Dr. Campbell was merely quoting el presidente’s own words.” She bestowed her warmest, most conciliatory smile on the dictator. “And, being one of the most charismatic speakers ever to hold elective office, of course he also understands the enormous power of words.”

Yep, Kirby thought as the man visibly preened like the peacocks roaming the grounds. The longtime WMR doctor definitely won the tact medal.

“You are too kind, Dr. Moore.”

He took Rachel’s hand and lifted it to his lips. After holding it just a moment too long, he turned to his minister of health, who was seated across the table, next to the American ambassador.

“Tomorrow you must make a visit to the good doctors’ clinic,” he instructed. “Compile a list of everything they need. Then make certain that they receive it.”

“That’s extremely generous of you, Señor Presidente,” the ambassador, whose press secretary, a brunet who’d accompanied him to take photos of the event, said.

Suck-up, Kirby thought darkly.

Everyone at the table knew that the offer was all for show. Hadn’t she heard similar promises the entire six months she’d been in the country? But while Vasquez might talk the talk, his government had done nothing. Nada.

Meanwhile, the ambassador, who lived nearly as high on the hog as the dictator, never offered a single, solitary negative word.

Thus was the power of petroleum.