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had no idea what had happened to that girl. He didn’t even know if his mother was still alive. Home was a lifetime away.
Stopping for a moment to light up one of the thin, black cigarettes he ordered from a cigar shop in Tegucigalpa, he listened to the raucous laughter and cursing coming from the crew as they continued to work in the illumination from the floodlights that had been set up around the third well site. They worked in twelve-hour shifts, just as Lassiter’s men did.
When Kruger had first moved in the heavy equipment six months ago, preparing for what promised to be a long and profitable arrangement with the Cartégan government, he’d been assured of round-the-clock protection. But then the rebel incursions had intensified around the capital, and the beleaguered and poorly equipped army had been called into service to snuff out the guerrilla encampments in the mountains.
His operation soon the target of saboteurs and snipers, Hoyt Kruger had decided to put together his own army, not just as protection against the rebels, but as a safeguard in the event one of the local drug lords decided to move in and try to take control of the wells.
When word had reached Lassiter in Caracas that Kruger wanted to meet with him, he’d been a little surprised by the request. The reputation he’d acquired in Central America hadn’t exactly served him in good stead in recent months. Clients had become few and far between, which was why he’d drifted south. But he’d had a feeling from the moment he shook Kruger’s hand, sealing the deal, that the rumors keeping others at bay had been the reason the enigmatic Texas oilman had sought him out in the first place.
Lassiter ground the half-smoked cigarillo beneath his heel, then continued on his rounds. The camp consisted of five tin barracks crowded with bunks—four housing the drilling crew and one for Lassiter’s men—an office packed with computers connected to Kruger’s headquarters in Houston via satellite, a mess tent, a medical clinic and a rec hall of sorts where the off-duty crew could watch videos, play cards or shoot the bull. Not exactly the most effective activities for warding off tension and boredom, but on rotating weekends, there was the always unpredictable nightlife in Santa Elena, a thirty-minute jeep ride away.
The door to the office was open, and Lassiter could see the gleam of Kruger’s bald head in the glow of a CRT screen as he and his partner, Martin Grace, pored over the paper scrolling out of the printer like cardiologists reading an EKG.
Kruger was tall and powerfully built, not handsome except for his piercing blue eyes. He was in his late fifties, a good twenty-five years older than Lassiter, but still with a quick mind, a quick temper and an uncanny knack for making money.
Sensing Lassiter’s scrutiny, the two men looked up with tense expressions, then Kruger relaxed when he saw who it was. But Grace’s features tightened. He didn’t like Lassiter and made no bones about it.
He wasn’t a small man, probably just shy of six feet, but Kruger seemed to dwarf him, in both stature and personality.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” he barked irritably.
Lassiter shrugged. “Door was open.”
The offhand remark seemed to irritate the man even more, and Kruger laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Marty, Lassiter. He’s been jumpy ever since he got here. But he’ll soon get used to the gunfire, right?”
Lassiter shrugged. “I hardly even notice it.”
Martin Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but isn’t it your job to notice the gunfire? And what about the snipers?”
“What about them?”
“The men were fired on again yesterday. Luckily, there weren’t any injuries, but that’s no thanks to you. We hired you to protect the crew and our interests down here, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s what you’re doing.”
Lassiter’s name crackled over the radio fastened to his belt, and he gave Martin Grace a pointed look. “We’ll have to take this up later. I’ll come look you up as soon as I take care of this matter.”
Grace glanced down at the paper in his hand as if suddenly alarmed by the notion of a one-on-one meeting with Lassiter. “I’ve said my piece,” he mumbled.
Lassiter nodded to Kruger, then stepped outside to answer the radio. Lifting the unit to his ear, he said his name into the transmitter.
“It’s Tag,” the man on the other end responded. “I’ve picked up something on one of the monitors you need to take a look at.”
“What is it?”
Taglio hesitated. “I think you’d better see it for yourself.”
Uneasiness tripped along Lassiter’s nerve endings. There was something in Taglio’s voice—
“Anything wrong?” Kruger stood in the doorway, one hand propped against the frame as he regarded Lassiter anxiously.
Lassiter shrugged as his gaze met the older man’s in the semidarkness. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do. The men are getting skittish with all that damn gunfire. And I heard today a kid was brought into the clinic in Santa Elena with the fever. When the crew gets wind of that…” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, but Lassiter knew what he was thinking. The disease, along with the fighting, was getting closer.
Shouldering his rifle, Lassiter strode across the camp to the sheet-metal building that served as operation headquarters. As he neared the structure, the smell of diesel fuel from the generator grew stronger.
Part of the bargain Kruger had struck with the Cartégan government had been the routing of electrical lines through the jungle to the camp. But even in the capital, service was unpredictable at best, and Lassiter hadn’t wanted to take a chance on a complete power blackout.
The generator was a safeguard and had been one of a long list of items he’d presented to Kruger before he’d signed on to the operation. To the oilman’s credit, he hadn’t batted an eye at the price tag. And with good reason, Lassiter figured. His fee for services and equipment was substantial, but the wells that had already been drilled were producing thousands of barrels a day. If they continued at that rate for several months, let alone years, Kruger Petroleum stood to make millions.
Along with the generator, Lassiter had also requested portable thermal-imaging cameras which he and his men had camouflaged and mounted around the perimeter of the camp. The monitors were watched around the clock in the event the guerrillas or one of the drug cartels—or even the Cartégan army—decided to launch an assault.
The door to the building was open to allow in the night air, and when Lassiter stepped inside, Taglio glanced up with a frown. He was several years younger than Lassiter, well educated, well traveled and with a grace and style that often caused people to underestimate his toughness. Sometimes even Lassiter wondered what had brought a man with Danny Taglio’s looks and privileged background to a place like Cartéga, but he never asked. No one ever asked.
“You better take a look at this,” the younger man said.
Lassiter crossed to the monitor and watched as Taglio played back one of the surveillance tapes. Noting the time and date in the right-hand corner of the screen, Lassiter automatically glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes had elapsed since the image he was now watching had been captured on tape.
“Which camera?” he asked.
“Sector Seven.” The camp was divided into a grid similar to a tic-tac-toe board. Sector Seven was the lower left corner, the area closest to the mountains and to the heaviest guerrilla fighting.
Lassiter studied the screen. The resolution from the thermal-imaging cameras was a vast improvement over the night-vision equipment they’d once had to work with, but a thick mist had drifted down from the cloud forest, obliterating almost everything on the screen. Lassiter could make out the vague shape of trees, but that was about it. The camera spanned down, and the fence around the compound came into focus.