Lois Richer - Silent Enemy

“You’ve never wanted to take the suggestions I made a few weeks ago, Samantha. Why ask me now?” Daniel’s eyes bored into her, demanded answers she didn’t want to face.

“I only-”

“Only what? You told me you could manage anything Finders, Inc. handed you. You accused me of misjudging you, of refusing to acknowledge your abilities. And a whole lot of other things.” His amber eyes glittered hard, cold. “I’m only here because you said you needed help.”

Meaning she’d proven she wasn’t able to handle this case on her own. If only she’d never said it, never uttered those horrible words. Sam had only counted on hurting him as he’d hurt her. What she hadn’t considered was that Daniel wouldn’t forgive her.

“You’re in charge here, Sam. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out….”

Sneaking a flashlight under the blankets, hiding in a thicket of Caragana bushes where no one could see, pushing books into socks to take to camp—those are just some of the things Lois Richer freely admits to in her pursuit of the written word. “I’m a book-a-holic. I can’t do without stories,” she confesses. “It’s always been that way.”

Her love of language evolved into writing her own stories. Today her passion is to create tales of personal struggle that lead to triumph over life’s rocky road. For Lois, a happy ending is essential.

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We are pressed on every side by troubles, but not crushed and broken. We are perplexed because we don’t know why things happen as they do, but we don’t give up. We are hunted down, but God never abandons us. We get knocked down, but we get up again and keep going.

—II Corinthians 4:8–9

This book is lovingly dedicated

to the men and women around the globe who

sacrifice so much to bring the good news to all

people. Thank you is not enough.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The shipments came in short last time.”

“What would I know about that? I just deliver the merchandise.”

“El Señor does not like shortages.”

“Then he should talk to his supplier. I’m just the delivery man.” He tucked the cello-wrapped packets in under the boxes of supplies, adjusted the load so the tarp covered everything. When all was secure, he went to the office, used the pay phone.

“A small brown box will be waiting for you at the Grand Hotel Bolivia. You know what to do. Fail and you will pay dearly.”

“The money?”

“There are a list of stops. You will be paid at each. Don’t mess up.”

He hung up the phone, poured himself a cup of coffee and spent some time perusing a newspaper. When he saw the tired old car coming, he went back to the plane and adjusted his cargo one more time. Nothing was out of place.

“You have loaded it all?”

“Absolutely everything.” He helped the older man into his seat, then slammed the door shut. After radioing the tower, they taxied onto the runway. Soon the tiny plane crested over the rain forest.

“Why don’t you continue with your story, Padre?”

By the time he reached the airstrip bordering the compound, he had all the information he needed.

“The most effective disguise isn’t.”

Samantha Henderson drew the tattered edges of Bertha-the-street-lady’s shawl around her and wondered if her boss had ever been reduced to this.

Not likely.

The slap of footsteps paused, stopped just behind her. She made sure the brim of Bertha’s straw hat hid her face.

“Look around. She’s got to be here.”

Varga!

Sam hunched over, hacked out a loud, chesty cough and turned it into a long-winded rumble that suggested an unhealthy lung condition. After a loud expletive, the feet moved a safer distance away.

“What do I do now? He’ll kill me if he finds out I lost her.”

“Check the market. If I find her, I’ll hang on to her. We’ve got to be there at four. Now go. El Zopilote doesn’t like complications.”

Four? Sam checked her watch. She had to be ready to move, and that meant getting rid of this disguise. If that statue was going anywhere, she had to know. That’s why she was there.

El Zopilote—The Vulture. Was he the buyer? She’d assumed Varga was a small-time thief, the other guy a pal he’d paid to help. But if they both worked for this el Zopilote…

The wind played with her hat, tugged it against its thin strings. She reached to grab it, noticed Bertha’s nod. Time to go.

While Varga had his back turned, Samantha limped over to the black wrought-iron fence that led to a courtyard, one of many in Lima. This one had a bougainvillea tree in full flower—good cover. From here she could look out onto the square. Varga and friend loped across the busy street.

She tossed her hat onto the ground, peeled off her ratty shawl, voluminous skirt and peasant blouse until all she wore were her jeans and T-shirt. Relief from the heat of two layers of clothing swept across her darkened skin. Repeatedly applying the self-tanner had ensured she was as dark as any native Peruvian, but now she needed a new look. She undid her braids, finger-combed her hair loose so that it shielded her face. Now she looked like a tourist.

While unearthing her backpack from the brambles of the tree, Sam peeked through the branches. On the corner across the street, Varga stood speaking to his friend. He had a package tucked under one arm.

So he still had the statue. Sam pulled on her sunglasses, ducked out of her hiding place and ambled down the street to a bench half a block down. She sat, picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. Following Juan Varga wasn’t the problem. Figuring out why he did the things he did was. He should have handed the statue over long ago instead of traipsing across South America. If el Zopilote had something to do with his actions, maybe this four o’clock meeting would give her an opportunity to find out why.

Making informed decisions about her next move was impossible. All she could do was follow Varga and wait for answers. In the meantime, she’d check in. She dialed Finders, Inc. and waited. For the third time in three days she couldn’t get through. After several attempts she tried a different number. The phone rang endlessly.

A two-hour time difference between here and the offices in Victoria meant that a certain someone who kept erratic hours should be in to take her call on his private line. Except that Daniel McCullough did not pick up. Either the phone system wasn’t working properly or her cell phone was faulty. Both major mistakes for an agent of her experience.