probably more self-serving than precautionary.
Lassiter started to walk away when the sound of breaking glass stopped him short. He turned and put an ear to the door.
Someone was inside.
His first thought was that Angus had returned early from his day off, but Lassiter had seen the Aussie head off to Santa Elena just before lunch, and the good doctor never came back early or sober from a furlough.
Besides, how would Angus get through a door that was padlocked from the outside?
How would anyone get through that door?
A ghost, Lassiter. I’m talking about a damn ghost.
CURSING SOFTLY, Melanie whipped the scarf from her head and quickly wound it around the cut on her wrist.
Damn! She was getting blood everywhere.
And everything had been going so well until that point. She’d made it inside the compound without being detected. Located the infirmary and gotten inside without any problem. The locked medicine cabinet had presented the first real challenge, but she’d solved that by simply smashing out the glass front. No problem, except when she’d reached inside, she’d cut her wrist on a shard.
But even worse, the sound of shattering glass had been like a gunshot in the quiet. Someone might have heard the noise and would soon come to investigate. Melanie knew she had to hurry.
Fighting off a wave of dizziness from the sight of her own blood, she directed her penlight into the cabinet, playing the beam over the vials and bottles of medicine.
Whoa, some heavy-duty stuff there. OxyCotin, Percocet, Demerol. And some good old-fashioned morphine.
Tempting, but not why she’d come there.
Skipping the drugstore heroine, she went straight for the antibiotics, scanning the labels until she found what she needed. Quickly she stuffed the packets of tetracycline into the leather bag she wore draped over her shoulder.
A slight noise, nothing more than a swish of air, sent a chill up her spine, and slowly she turned toward the door.
A man stood just inside, almost hidden by shadows. Even so, Melanie could tell that he was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. His features were indistinguishable, but she knew his gaze was on her. A cold, sharp, penetrating stare that cut her right to the bone.
He was dressed like a soldier. Camouflage jacket and pants. Rugged boots. A rifle barrel jutting over his shoulder, and he carried a handgun that was pointed at her.
She knew at once who he was, and her whole body went slack with fear.
El guerrero del demonio…
“¿HABLA USTED Inglés? Do you speak English?”
The woman didn’t answer, just stood staring at him, unblinking, as if frozen. But Lassiter knew she understood him. Now that he’d gotten a better look at her, he could tell she was American by the way she carried herself, by the clothes she wore, the cut of her blond hair.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.
Still she didn’t answer.
Slowly, she held up her hands as she began to back away from him.
“Stay where you are,” he warned. “Don’t move.”
She continued to back toward the window, and Lassiter guessed her intent. “Stop!”
He rushed her, but she turned quickly, took a step toward the window and…disappeared.
Vanished into thin air.
Without thinking, Lassiter opened fire.
Chapter Two
“Let me see that wrist,” Dr. Wilder commanded as he reached for Melanie’s hand.
She put it behind her. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.”
His gaze turned reproachful. “Then why have you been hiding it from me all day?”
“I haven’t. We’ve both been busy, that’s all.” Which was true. They’d had a steady stream of patients coming into the clinic for hours with ailments ranging from dementia to dysentery, and Melanie, who had come to the clinic four days ago to volunteer, had been kept so busy she’d barely had a moment to spend with Angel.
But the child’s condition had been steadily improving. Her fever was down, the cough had subsided, and her breathing was finally normal. Both the oxygen and the IV had been removed, and with continued antibiotic therapy, Dr. Wilder was cautiously optimistic for a full recovery.
What would happen to the child once she was well enough to leave the clinic, Melanie didn’t want to contemplate. She’d watched enough cable news back home to know the miserable plight of war orphans in countries like Cartéga.
“Melanie?”
She glanced up to find Dr. Wilder waiting patiently. “Your arm, please.”
With a heavy sigh, she held out her hand, palm up, and Dr. Wilder carefully unwrapped the bandage she’d put around her wrist earlier that morning. The cotton was dotted with blood.
He looked up, his usually placid gray eyes now stern and ominous. “This is a very serious cut.”
“It looks worse than it is.” She tried to snatch her hand away, but Dr. Wilder held on firmly.
“It should have been sutured immediately. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I already told you, the less you know of my whereabouts last evening, the better off you’ll be.”
“This happened last night? At Kruger’s compound?”
“No comment.”
His features tightened. “How did it happen? Who did this to you?”
The angry, possessive note in his voice startled Melanie. They’d only known each other a few days, but they’d bonded through their mutual concern for Angel. Their friendship had developed rapidly during the crisis, which was unusual for Melanie. She didn’t make friends easily or quickly, although her reckless behavior in high school had made her quite popular for a time, she thought dryly.
“No one did it to me. It was an accident. Let’s just forget it.”
“Easy to say until you develop a nasty infection,” Dr. Wilder scolded. “Now hold still.”
The door opened and Blanca, Dr. Wilder’s nurse, stuck her head around the corner. Tossing back her long black hair, she eyed them curiously for a moment before she spoke. She was a young woman, Melanie’s age perhaps, with delicate features and a curvaceous figure reminiscent of old Hollywood. The word lush always came to mind when Melanie saw her.
But Blanca’s eyes were her most striking feature. Dark, wide and soulful, they glinted with suspicion every
