Murdock's Last Stand

“We can hold them off for a while longer,” Juan said in his native Spanish. “One of you must go now, if there is any hope of getting that information to Burdett.”

“Murdock’s going,” Lanny said.

“S?. He is younger and stronger than you and has the best chance of getting through.” Juan’s large, dark eyes gazed directly at Murdock, the look a mixture of fear and hope and pleading. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”

Murdock opened his mouth to protest, but stopped short of uttering a word. He knew that Lanny and Juan were right. And he didn’t have time for long farewells. No time to tell Lanny what the man already knew—that he cared for him like a son cared for his father.

While Juan’s battered and bruised teenage soldiers held the mighty Zarazaian army at bay, Murdock slipped into the thicket of vines and gnarled trees that led into the jungle. He didn’t think, didn’t feel and didn’t look back. On his belly, he made his way over the rough forest floor until he knew he was out of sight and out of range. Just as he rose into a crouching position, a thunderous explosion rocked the earth beneath his feet. He froze to the spot. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. His blood ran cold.

Murdock retraced his path, racing toward the men he’d just left. Pausing briefly as he neared the site, he breathed deeply and pleaded with God. But it was a prayer he already knew wouldn’t be answered. Finding shelter and a modicum of safety behind a stand of massive carnauba palms, Murdock forced himself to face the truth. Billows of black smoke rose into the sky where the explosion had hit. Pieces of trees mingled with body parts. There was nothing he could do to help Lanny and Juan or the boy soldiers.

Lanny! Murdock cried silently. Lanny was dead!

Murdock’s eyelids flew open. He shot straight up. Moisture coated his body as if he’d just returned from the Zarazaian jungle a few minutes ago instead of twenty years ago. Kicking the wrinkled, tangled covers off his feet, he slid out of bed. He padded on bare feet across the wooden floor as he made his way out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room. What he needed was a shot of whiskey.

He retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the makeshift bar on the sofa table by the windows that overlooked Locklin Street. After pouring himself a liberal amount of the liquor, he flopped down in his favorite chair, a brown overstuffed leather seat. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he stretched out his long legs and rested his feet on the huge leather ottoman.

Why the hell had he dreamed about Lanny? About Juan and his soldiers? After twenty years, why couldn’t he forget the past?

Liking the taste of the whiskey, he savored it in his mouth a few seconds before swallowing. The liquid burned a trail down his throat and hit his stomach like a ball of fire, warming his insides.

For the first five or six years after his escape from Zaraza, he’d had the dream on a regular basis, but as time went by, the dream had become less frequent. This particular nightmare hadn’t awakened him once during the past ten years. So why tonight?

An uneasy feeling gnawed away at him. Something was wrong. But what? He was a man who had survived by taking heed when his gut instincts warned him. When he’d been a green kid of eighteen, he had come through the final days of the fighting in Nam without a scratch. He had survived over twenty-five years as a mercenary and a freelance CIA operative by a combination of good instincts and being a damn lucky son of a bitch.

There had to be a reason why he’d dreamed about the last day he had seen Lanny McCroskey alive.

Murdock’s hand accidentally brushed the television remote control. His nerves zinged. That was it! On the world news he’d watched right before going to bed last night, there had been a report about the twenty-year war in Zaraza and how the rebel army had grown in size and strength over the years. The journalist had said that the old regime, controlled by General Ramos, was in a panic. For the first time since the beginning of the civil war, the rebels had a real chance to take over the government.

Murdock downed the last drops of whiskey, set the glass aside and closed his eyes. Lanny, Juan and a bunch of teenagers masquerading as guerrilla soldiers had sacrificed their lives that day—for the cause. And by dying, they had saved Murdock. Saved him to deliver a message to their CIA contact, Rick Burdett.

In the dark, lonely moments when a man questioned what his life had been worth, Murdock asked himself why he’d been the one spared. What made him so all-fired special that God had let him live when better men had died? But he’d never found the answer.

Chapter 1

Catherine Price rose from her chair, smoothed the wrinkles from her blue linen skirt and squared her shoulders. The moment the door to her office opened, she took a calming breath and prepared herself to meet the government official who had telephoned her that morning. Rickman Burdett had identified himself as a CIA Deputy Director.

“I have information about your father,” the man had told her. “This is something I prefer to discuss with you in person.”

Jane Farr, Catherine’s secretary, ushered the gentleman into her office. Mr. Burdett was a tall, slender gentleman with a mane of white hair and a set of piercing brown eyes. Except for those cold, calculating eyes, he looked like any ordinary, grandfatherly businessman.

As Catherine rounded her desk, she extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Burdett.”

Burdett clasped her hand in his. His cool, slender fingers gripped loosely, his handshake reserved. “I appreciate your seeing me, Ms. Price. I realize that I probably made this matter sound mysterious when I phoned you and for that I do apologize. However, the news I have for you is the kind that should be delivered in person.”

Catherine had no idea what this man would tell her about her father. After all these years, she didn’t really care. Lanny McCroskey had been dead since she was sixteen and hadn’t really been a part of her life even before his death. His military career had sent him to Vietnam when she was a mere child and when he had returned, he’d been a stranger to her and to her mother. Her parents had divorced five years before her father’s mysterious death in Zaraza and during those five years, she hadn’t seen her father once.

“Won’t you sit down.” Catherine waved her hand in a well-mannered invitation.

“Thanks.”

Burdett waited for her to return to her tufted-leather chair behind her antique oak desk before he sat.

“Now, what is this information you have about my father that prompted you to fly to Tennessee to tell me in person.”

“Have you been watching the televised reports on the war in Zaraza lately?”

“Not really. I don’t watch much television. I prefer to spend my leisure hours reading.”

“Then let me bring you up to date on what’s going on there.”

“Is that really necessary?” Catherine glanced at her diamond-studded gold watch. Whatever this man had to tell her, she hoped he’d make it quick. She had a busy day ahead of her and she hated the thought of wasting time listening to some old war story about her father.

“Ms. Price, what if I told you that your father didn’t die in Zaraza twenty years ago?”

“What?” A nervous unease fluttered in her stomach.

“We have reason to believe that Lanny McCroskey was taken alive by the Zarazaian government and has spent the past twenty years in prison there.”

Catherine laid her tightly balled fists on top of her desk. She had understood Mr. Burdett’s words, but her mind refused to accept their meaning. “What makes you think that my father is a prisoner in Zaraza?”

“We received a letter—” Burdett reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a tattered envelope “—from General Ramos, the Zarazaian dictator.” Burdett held out the missive toward Catherine.

She stared at the envelope. She didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to become involved in whatever game this man was playing. Her father had died twenty years ago. The U.S. government had officially informed her mother of that fact.

“I don’t believe my father is alive and I have no intention of sitting here listening to any wild stories you’ve fabricated about—”

“Lanny McCroskey is alive!” Burdett lifted a photograph from the envelope. “He’s twenty years older and looks like hell, but I recognize the man in this picture. It’s your father, Ms. Price.” He laid the six-by-four-inch color snapshot on her desk.

Catherine fought the urge to swipe the picture off into the trash. But despite her doubts that it was possible for her father to still be alive, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from leaning forward slightly and glancing quickly at the photograph. Her heart caught in her throat as she looked at the vaguely familiar face. Without hesitation, she snatched the snapshot from her desk and lifted it for closer inspection.

The man’s hair was gray, as was his beard and mustache. He was thin, haggard, weary. Slumped shoulders. Hollow eyes. An aura of defeat surrounded him. This was an old man. A pathetic old man. This wasn’t the Lanny McCroskey she remembered. Big, robust, intimidating. Gone was the tanned skin and black hair. Gone was the virile, almost swaggering persona that had been a part of her army sergeant father. But the eyes were the same. A pure sky blue. Despite the misery she saw in his expression, she couldn’t mistake the resemblance between her own eyes and those that stared back at her from the photograph she held in her trembling hand.

“My God!” She clutched the picture with both hands, then brought it upward to cover her mouth with it as she closed her eyes. Tears lodged in her throat.

Burdett stood abruptly. “General Ramos is asking $100,000 in exchange for Lanny’s release.”

Catherine’s eyelids flew open. “What—what did you say?”

“It seems General Ramos is well aware that his dictatorship is nearing its end, so he’s selling his foreign prisoners back to their families for as much cash as possible. The asking price for Lanny’s freedom is $100,000 in U.S. currency.” Burdett offered Catherine the letter once again.

“Officially, we—the U.S. government—can’t become involved. But unofficially, I want to help you and am willing to put up part of the money, if—”

“I have the money,” Catherine said, her voice a mere whisper. “I can give you a check today.”

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.” Burdett frowned, wrinkling his brow and deepening the lines around his mouth. “If you’ll read the letter, you’ll see that, in Lanny’s case, General Ramos is demanding that you deliver the money in person to the capital city of San Carlos. This holds true for all the political prisoners the governor is selling. By extorting money from individuals and not governments, he stands a better chance of finding a government that will give him asylum when he flees Zaraza.”

Catherine grabbed the letter from Burdett, unfolded the wrinkled page and scanned the message hurriedly. The conditions of the exchange were spelled out quite succinctly. No room for doubt. One hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency, hand delivered by Lanny’s daughter, Catherine McCroskey Price, directly into General Ramos’s hands.