Captive Of Fate. Lindsay McKenna
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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 briefcase 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