Captive Of Fate

Alanna waited impatiently for the phone connection with the senator’s home to be completed. She pushed her damp hair away from her face, still boiling with rage over the impudence of the Marine officer. Thornton’s voice came over the phone line, faraway and slightly distorted by distance.

“He’s everything you said, Senator.”

“Met him already?”

“Unfortunately, yes. What an arrogant—”

“A monster, Alanna. Look, can you start finding out about his supply routes?”

“Yes. I just persuaded the police commissioner to allow me aboard the next helicopter flying to his staging area at the bottom of the mountain. It’s pouring rain here and getting colder. They’re having a lot of trouble with fog in the mountains, and the supplies are backing up at the base. I’ll start my investigation there.”

“Good girl. Give me a call the first time you stumble upon something, and remember, Alanna don’t trust Breckenridge. He can be suave as a fox when he wants to. Don’t fall for any of his tricks. Be on guard.”

“Don’t worry, Senator, I’ll be on my toes. He’s an easy man to dislike.”

“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.

Chapter Two

It was noon when they finally landed at the base camp. Alanna swallowed hard, airsick from the jolting ride in the helicopter. Her stomach churned threateningly as she extricated herself from the tangle of boxes with help from a soldier. Without a word or much less a glance, Matt Breckenridge slid out of the chopper and was promptly met by his vanguard of aides, a mixture of Marine and Costa Rican police personnel. Alanna jumped to the ground behind him, her feet sinking into ankle-deep mud immediately. She groaned, watching as the red ooze claimed her expensive leather shoes. Rain slashed unrelentingly at her face, and she bowed her head, looking for the closest shelter.

The base camp consisted of ten or twelve sadly thatched huts; some made out of spare wood and rough-cut lumber, others out of grass and twigs and adobelike bricks. A feeling of despair began to shadow her as she continued to stand there. She hated the helpless feeling that came when a situation was controlled by someone other than herself. She had always been in control of her life…at least until she met Paul. Now, the bitterness she’d felt toward him welled up in her once more when she thought of the Colonel. He wanted to run her life, and she would never stand still for that again. Well, she would just have to take charge and go ask some questions. She muttered a curse at Colonel Breckenridge, blaming him for the discomfort brought on by this assignment. He wouldn’t help a sick child, she thought, clumping slowly through the mud to a wooden structure that looked more substantial than the rest.

Alanna walked in, her hair hanging lifelessly about her pale oval face. Her raincoat was no longer shedding water, but soaking it up instead, and she felt damp and miserable. The flurry of Spanish was thick and fast as several enlisted men manned radios and a number of officers hovered above them. A contingent of six men left, and a few more straggled in, looking just as wet and exhausted as she felt. Finally, Alanna spied the commanding officer and made her way across the dirty floor to him.

After half an hour of haggling, showing him her papers and the necessary documents, Alanna made some progress. She managed to get hold of a soldier to show her where the supplies were being kept. The officer bent and kissed her hand twice, smiling provocatively, his brown, almond-shaped eyes alight with invitation. Alanna remembered the Colonel’s warning and smiled politely in return, trying to maintain her dignity regardless of her muddied feet and ankles.

Following the soldier back out into the rain, she noticed more men standing around in huddled groups. There were two helicopters now, and they were both shut down. Looking to the north, she noted low-hanging white clouds that probably signaled fog stealing in for the afternoon. That meant a delay, she supposed, as they slogged through the mire to a series of small shacks surrounded by a barbed wire fence. She thanked him in Spanish as he unlocked and opened the door.

The shack was damp-smelling, the odor of medicine strong in the stale air. It was nearly dark, and Alanna could barely make out the labels which announced the contents of each crate. Taking out a pad and pencil from her purse, she began to write down systematically the necessary information. She lost track of time, engrossed in her activity. Hearing the heavy thud of booted feet, she snapped her head upward.

“You again,” the Colonel growled, coming to a halt. He was dressed in a rubber poncho, looking amazingly dry despite the rain. For a moment, Alanna found herself hating him for his apparent comfort. His gaze roved from her feet up to her head, an unwilling smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I’ll say this for you, you don’t quit regardless of difficulties.”

Her mouth turned down. “I suppose that’s a high compliment coming from you.”

“Yes, it is. You have spunk. I admire that in a woman.”

“Save your compliments for someone who will appreciate them, Colonel.”

Matt walked slowly toward her, pushing the cap back on his head. “I suppose a woman with your good looks is used to getting compliments all the time.”

She gritted her teeth and returned to her work, trying to ignore him. But, God, he was impossible to ignore! Just being around him made her feel edgy. There was something dangerously, vitally male about him. It was in his walk, his easy banter, the way he looked at her…. Alanna felt herself melting inwardly every time their eyes met. The senator had warned her about the Marine’s ability to charm, and she redoubled her efforts to block him out.

He rested his arm against one of the crates above where she was working. “Well, is it true? You happily married to a man that appreciates your good looks and intelligence?”

Alanna pressed her lips together, aware of the pain in her heart. “That’s none of your business,” she hissed.

“I see. Sounds like either a divorce or you got jilted. Which was it?”

She rose from her crouched position after copying the numbers off the last crate. “Don’t you have anything better to do than interrogate me? I thought you were so worried about getting supplies up to San Dolega.”

He took off his hat and scratched his head. “I was until the fog socked us in. Not much we can do at the moment.” His voice lost its mocking quality as he frowned, staring into the darkness above her. “We’re reduced to three operating jeeps, and even those can’t get through. The road is temporarily closed by a large avalanche of mud that occurred an hour ago. The only thing left is for the men to act like pack horses and carry these crates the last five miles on their backs.” He sighed, focusing on her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Miss McIntire. I needed a lift—this day started out rotten, and it’s getting worse by the moment. I’m glad I stumbled onto you.”

She shrugged off his banter. “What do you mean an avalanche? Aren’t the people getting help now?”

“The rains are heavy this time of year, and the earthquake caused a loosening of the topsoil on the mountainsides. The result is an avalanche. The fog is due to cold air mixing with the higher coastal temperatures. This weather system is unusual, so we’re more or less outflanked at the moment. And, to answer your question, no.”

“I’m sure, with your brilliant tactical mind, you’ll come up with something to save the day.”

Matt shook his head, biting his lower lip. “Not always.”

“Is this entire rescue mission run by the military?”

“Why? Do you think a civilian could come up with a better mousetrap under the present conditions?”

“Probably,” she stated boldly. “You’re so typical. If you can’t blow it up, destroy it, or change it, you don’t know how to deal with a problem.”

He stared at her hard, some of the tenseness returning to his face. “I happen to have a degree in engineering, and I’m used to building things, Miss McIntire, not destroying them. You’ve sure got a hate for the military, don’t you? But then, you’re Thornton’s assistant. Did he brainwash you, or did you come prepackaged to his office that way?”

Something snapped inside her, and she struck out at him. He caught her wrist easily, as if he were thwarting a child’s paltry attempt at retaliation. “Let me go!”

Matt’s eyes twinkled with irony. “My little dove is a hawk in disguise. You talk a good line of pacifism, but at the first provocation, you strike out like a cobra. Who’s more aggressive here, lady?” And he suddenly let her go, grinning at her undisguised anger. “How did your boyfriend put up with that temper of yours?”

Alanna backed away from him, her eyes large and her breath harsh. She rubbed her wrist tenderly, feeling the pain from his grip. “We never argued!” she admitted.

“No? Maybe you should have. A volatile argument every now and then is good for the soul. Now, don’t you feel better?”

“No, but maybe I would if I could have hit you. You’re such an—an arrogant bastard!”