afraid your Marine image leads one to expect something of that sort, though,” Alanna retorted.
“Typical civilian remark. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure meeting you under the circumstances. Too bad we never met in D.C. before this. It would have been interesting….”
She blushed scarlet at the innuendo. How dare he! She called him a few expletives in her mind as she watched him stride down the ramp and back out into the rain, issuing crisp orders to his men.
“Damn you, Colonel. You’re going to get everything that’s been coming to you. I promise. God, how I promise.” She pulled her coat tighter, walking quickly out of the plane and heading with determination toward the customs building.
* * *
Alanna waited impatiently for the phone connection with the senator’s home to be completed. She pushed her damp hair away from her face, still boiling with rage over the impudence of the Marine officer. Thornton’s voice came over the phone line, faraway and slightly distorted by distance.
“He’s everything you said, Senator.”
“Met him already?”
“Unfortunately, yes. What an arrogant—”
“A monster, Alanna. Look, can you start finding out about his supply routes?”
“Yes. I just persuaded the police commissioner to allow me aboard the next helicopter flying to his staging area at the bottom of the mountain. It’s pouring rain here and getting colder. They’re having a lot of trouble with fog in the mountains, and the supplies are backing up at the base. I’ll start my investigation there.”
“Good girl. Give me a call the first time you stumble upon something, and remember, Alanna don’t trust Breckenridge. He can be suave as a fox when he wants to. Don’t fall for any of his tricks. Be on guard.”
“Don’t worry, Senator, I’ll be on my toes. He’s an easy man to dislike.”
“But a clever enemy. I don’t trust him under any circumstances. Remember what he did to Tim.” She nodded, recalling vividly her own clash with the officer.
“I will. Good-bye.”
* * *
It was early September, the beginning of the rainy season, and San Jose lay drenched in the wake of the tropical storm. Alanna spoke in fluent Spanish to the commissioner’s aide, thanking him. He motioned for her to board the awaiting helicopter. The Costa Rican at the door offered his hand, pulling her aboard. She sat crouched in the doorway, searching for a space to crawl into. There was a small niche behind the pilot’s seat, and she struggled to wedge herself down between it and a large wooden crate. Looking up, she saw Matt Breckenridge staring stonily at her from the copilot’s seat.
“I’m impressed,” he said, raising his voice above the roar of the helicopter. “You’ve managed to twist one of the local officials around your little finger and wrangle your way on board. What did it cost you, Miss McIntire?”
She glared back at him. “Not a damn thing, Colonel. Some people occasionally do nice things for free.”
He grinned wolfishly. “Nothing in life is free, lady. Your senator has influence down here because he was once an ambassador. Don’t kid yourself.”
Alanna crouched back, unable to meet his laughing gray eyes. God, how she wanted to slap his ruggedly handsome face! He was such a know-it-all. But a voice nagged at her. There was an ageless wisdom in his eyes, whether she wanted to recognize it or not. He was probably in his mid-thirties, and from what the senator had said, he had been all over the world. And he had come out of the war highly decorated, a proud symbol of the Marine Corps. She was not half as well traveled, but she had studied and got a master’s degree in political science—the world had opened up to her just as widely in other ways.
Alanna grudgingly found herself watching him as the helicopter flew through the murky mist of rain. At times he conversed with the pilot over the microphone, or consulted the map and plotter which rested across his thighs. There was a sureness in each of his movements: none were wasted or appeared unnecessary. His hands were spare, long and callused, with several small white scars on the backs, and she idly wondered how he got them.
Alanna studied his face, watching his eyes narrow with intensity as he talked on the radio or looked out the cockpit window, staring into space for minutes at a time. He always seemed to be thinking. She found herself secretly smiling when he smiled. There was a noticeable camaraderie between him and the pilot, and she enjoyed watching his mouth lift upward, hearing the resonant laughter that came from deep within his broad chest as they joked with each other. With a set of earphones on and without the cap, he looked younger, more boyish. If he put the Marine cap back on, would he resume his “superman” image?
Alanna watched as the dull green of the jungle below them gave way to the lowlands that skirted the Cord de Talamanca mountain range. Fixing her stare out the cockpit window, she wondered where, in those lush, verdant mountains, San Dolega was nestled. According to her limited knowledge of the topography, Chirripo Grande, a twelve thousand-foot mountain peak, hovered over the important coffee-growing area that surrounded San Dolega. The winds began to pick up, and she braced herself as the pilot wrestled with the treacherous up and down drafts created by the mountain range. Once Matt glanced to his left, watching her through narrowed eyes. She lowered her gaze, not wanting to make eye contact with him. Briefly a flicker of concern had crossed his features, but she forced herself to ignore it. The only thing the Marine respected was an ability to survive; there was no room in him for sympathy.
Chapter Two
It was noon when they finally landed at the base camp. Alanna swallowed hard, airsick from the jolting ride in the helicopter. Her stomach churned threateningly as she extricated herself from the tangle of boxes with help from a soldier. Without a word or much less a glance, Matt Breckenridge slid out of the chopper and was promptly met by his vanguard of aides, a mixture of Marine and Costa Rican police personnel. Alanna jumped to the ground behind him, her feet sinking into ankle-deep mud immediately. She groaned, watching as the red ooze claimed her expensive leather shoes. Rain slashed unrelentingly at her face, and she bowed her head, looking for the closest shelter.
The base camp consisted of ten or twelve sadly thatched huts; some made out of spare wood and rough-cut lumber, others out of grass and twigs and adobelike bricks. A feeling of despair began to shadow her as she continued to stand there. She hated the helpless feeling that came when a situation was controlled by someone other than herself. She had always been in control of her life…at least until she met Paul. Now, the bitterness she’d felt toward him welled up in her once more when she thought of the Colonel. He wanted to run her life, and she would never stand still for that again. Well, she would just have to take charge and go ask some questions. She muttered a curse at Colonel Breckenridge, blaming him for the discomfort brought on by this assignment. He wouldn’t help a sick child, she thought, clumping slowly through the mud to a wooden structure that looked more substantial than the rest.
Alanna walked in, her hair hanging lifelessly about her pale oval face. Her raincoat was no longer shedding water, but soaking it up instead, and she felt damp and miserable. The flurry of Spanish was thick and fast as several enlisted men manned radios and a number of officers hovered above them. A contingent of six men left, and a few more straggled in, looking just as wet and exhausted as she felt. Finally, Alanna spied the commanding officer and made her way across the dirty floor to him.
After
