Lindsay McKenna - Captive Of Fate

“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.

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