day, her temperature had dropped and her breathing became less labored, but she still had a long way to go for a full recovery.
Melanie had barely left the little girl’s bedside since she’d frantically carried her into the clinic three days ago. She’d sat with her morning and night, reading to her, talking to her softly, sometimes praying. Now she reached out to touch a tiny hand beneath the oxygen tent, but the child didn’t stir.
Dr. Wilder, who ran the clinic, squeezed Melanie’s shoulder, then nodded toward the door. Reluctantly, she got up and followed him out. His solemn expression alarmed her.
Melanie turned to him anxiously once they were outside the closed door. “She’s better today, right? Her fever is down, her color is improving…”
“Yes, that’s the good news.” Dr. Wilder stripped off his surgical gloves and dropped them in a nearby waste receptacle. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, standing only a couple of inches above Melanie’s five foot seven, but he was trim and toned and the close-cropped beard and mustache gave him a distinguished, intellectual appearance. He was American, but Melanie couldn’t place his accent.
When she’d first met him, she’d judged him to be around fifty-five, but after having spent the past few days in his company, she’d come to the conclusion that he was one of those men whose age could be anywhere from late forties to late sixties.
He was refined, gentle, a very good doctor from what she’d observed, although, admittedly, a premed dropout such as she was perhaps not the best judge. Still, she’d been impressed with his care and treatment of Angel. Melanie was convinced the child wouldn’t have made it through that first day without Dr. Wilder’s expertise.
Why someone with his obvious skill and talent had ended up in a place like Santa Elena, she couldn’t imagine. Nor did she ask. She’d learned a long time ago that curiosity courted curiosity. Her own reasons for coming to Cartéga were private and complicated—perhaps even dangerous—and she had no intention of discussing them with anyone, much less dragging an innocent bystander into her murky quest.
Dr. Wilder’s worried gaze met hers. “Angel is responding to the treatment, but unfortunately, the epidemic has depleted our supply of antibiotics. I’ve made repeated calls to the Ministry of Health in San Cristóbal, but the government either can’t or won’t help us. I haven’t even been able to get the results of Angel’s blood tests, and without them, I can’t even be sure what we’re dealing with…”
He trailed off, shaking his head in disgust. “The minister claims that airlifted medical supplies from the U.S. are being stolen by the rebels, but I’m just as inclined to believe they’re being confiscated by the army to sell on the black market.”
If Melanie had learned anything in the brief time she’d spent in Cartéga it was that in the bloody civil war that had raged for nearly five years, there were no good guys. Only victims like Angel.
She drew a long breath. “What happens to Angel if we run out?”
Dr. Wilder glanced at the door behind which the tiny, dark-eyed girl valiantly fought for her life. “She’s very weak. Without the antibiotics, her immune system may not be able to fight the infection. Complications could set in. Pneumonia, acute renal failure…” He gave a helpless shrug. “Without the drugs, she could die.”
“We can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen,” Melanie said stubbornly.
He gave her a weary, defeated smile. “We may not have a choice. Some things are out of our hands. If the shipments can’t get through…”
“We’ll just have to find the drugs somewhere else.”
He frowned. “Where?”
Melanie thought for a moment. “An American oil company has a drilling site thirty miles north of here at the base of the mountains. They have an infirmary on the premises, as well as an airstrip, and supplies are flown in twice a month.”
Dr. Wilder’s gaze narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“I talk to people in the village. I hear things,” she replied evasively.
“Did you also hear that the drilling site is like a fortress?” Dr. Wilder demanded. “Kruger Petroleum has hired a small army to guard the perimeter of the compound. No one can get in or out without proper authorization. You won’t get within a hundred yards before you’ll be turned away.”
She shrugged. “We’ll see about that.”
“Melanie…”
“Look, I’m not going to let that little girl die, Dr. Wilder, no matter what I have to do. But things could get a little dicey,” she admitted. “The less you know the better off you’ll be.”
“Deniability, you mean.”
“Exactly. But please don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope you do. Because I hear things, too.” Dr. Wilder’s expression turned grim, cautious. “The mercenaries Kruger has hired to guard his wells are a pack of ruthless savages, the kind who shoot first and ask questions later. They’re led by a man the locals call el guerrero del demonio.”
Demon warrior.
An icy dread tingled down Melanie’s backbone.
“They say he has…unnatural powers.”
Melanie forced a smile to her suddenly frozen lips. “You’re a man of science, Doctor. Surely you don’t believe in superstitions.”
“Where science is corrupted, evil often flourishes,” he muttered obliquely. “Tread carefully, Melanie.”
The hair at the back of her neck lifted at his strange warning, and she watched him curiously until he’d disappeared down the hallway. Then she turned and slipped through the door to Angel’s room.
Resuming her position beside the child’s bed, she settled in to await the coming darkness.
THUNDER MINGLED with gunfire in the mountains as nightfall swooped like a vampire’s cloak over the jungle. Jon Lassiter scanned the area in the deepening twilight as a knot of tension formed in the pit of his stomach. It was a familiar sensation. A mixture of elation, dread and adrenaline that he always experienced before a battle.
Neither the storm nor the rebel skirmishes with the Cartégan army had moved any closer in the past twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t about to let down his guard. He’d learned a long time ago that disaster usually struck when and where you least expected it.
And in Cartéga, disaster was never far away.
The tiny Central American country had once been little more than a blip on the international radar screen, a lush, primitive paradise that time and progress had forgotten. But the discovery of oil, along with one of the most significant archaeological finds in decades, had propelled Cartéga onto the world stage.
Representatives from all the major oil companies had stampeded into the sleepy capital of San Cristóbal, throwing enough money around to corrupt an already corrupt government. Lassiter had no idea how Kruger Petroleum, his current employer, had managed to outsmart the international conglomerates, but knowing Hoyt Kruger, it had probably
