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“Situations that involve operating in dense jungle, dealing with insurgents who call themselves freedom fighters when they’re really savages who value human life only in terms of how much money kidnapping, torture and ransom can bring.”
Wilde’s tone was raw. His jaw was tight, his hands fisted.
Tanner narrowed his eyes. “General. Begging your pardon, sir, but what in hell are we talking about?”
Wilde pulled in a deep breath, expelled it, and walked to Blake’s desk. He picked up a leather briefcase, opened it, took out a folder and offered it to Tanner.
Tanner didn’t move.
It was crazy, but he had the damnedest feeling that taking the folder was going to be one enormous mistake.
“Take it,” the general said sharply.
Eight years in the service, Tanner knew
an inescapable command when he heard it. He took the folder and opened it to a sheaf of documents.
The first was a New York Times article about a group known as Bright Star. Estrella Brilliante. The reporter described it as “a growing presence” in the “uncertain political climate” of the small Central American nation called San Escobal.
The second document was from a right wing think tank in Europe. It called Bright Star a Maoist terror group.
The third was from a left wing organization in South America. It labeled Bright Star a force for freedom.
Tanner looked up. Wilde was watching him closely.
“Sir?”
“What’s your opinion, Akecheta? Freedom fighters or terrorists?”
“Neither, General. I know this bunch. They’re bandits with a taste for blood and money. They use the one to obtain the other.”
“But they’re well-armed. Well-financed.”
“Yeah. They are. It suits the political needs of others to support groups like Bright Star, no matter the consequences.” Tanner closed the folder and offered it to Wilde. “Look, sir, I’m flattered you think my knowledge might be helpful, but I have no desire to become a desk jockey. So, thanks, but no thanks. I’m determined to rejoin my unit ASAP, and—”
“Turn to the next document, Lieutenant.”
“Sir. With all due respect…”
“Turn the page!”
Son of a bitch. Tanner felt his jaw tighten, but an order was an order. He flipped to the next document.
And froze.
He was looking at a photograph. Of a woman.
An incredibly beautiful woman.
Clear blue eyes. Dark lashes. Elegant nose. A mouth turned up at the corners in a smile so real that he wanted to smile in return. Her hair, the color of wheat ripening in a sun-filled field, tumbled to her shoulders in a riot of soft-looking curls. She was wearing a dress that was almost the same shade of blue as her eyes. It was what he thought women called a sundress, the top a halter-like thing that exposed strong, graceful shoulders and arms, the skirt belling out from her slender waist and stopping just above her knees.
She’d been photographed standing on the porch of what seemed to be a handsome old house, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around a post.
Tanner looked up. Wilde’s face was white with tension.
“My daughter,” he said in a low voice. “Her name is Alessandra.” He paused. “Turn to the next page.”
That nasty this-is-a-mistake feeling came over Tanner again, but this time nothing could have kept him from following through.
