Sprawling white-sand beaches, an ocean that bled into jungle, and rain forests that climbed to incredible twelve-thousand-foot, snow-covered peaks made Santa Marta a fascinating place.
Fascinating, yes. But this part of Colombia could also be deadly.
Before they’d left Curaçao, Chase had done some research on what turned out to be the oldest existing Spanish city in South America, dating back to 1525. While he was digging, he’d run across a State Department travel advisory for Santa Marta and all of Colombia. Travelers were warned against domestic insurgency, narcotrafficking, crime, extortion and kidnapping.
US government employees weren’t allowed to travel outside urban areas at night, were restricted from entering the coastal Caribbean area at all—exactly whereBUZZ Wordhad ended up.
In a way, Chase figured the propensity for kidnapping in the region was a reason to be hopeful. Maybe Knox Winston would get a ransom call yet—and a fat payoff would save the lives of his son and the young woman who was with him.
Since that hadn’t happened yet, Chase had phoned his brother. Bran never talked about his special ops missions, but Chase knew he’d been deployed to a number of South American countries.
After he’d been wounded and left the army, Bran had worked protection in Venezuela, specializing in corporate personnel, mostly bigwigs and their families. But he’d also worked in Colombia. Nestlé, Kellogg, Pepsi, Coca-Cola and Dole all had enterprises in the country.
Bran still had contacts, former military who worked freelance for big dollars, mercenaries who knew Colombia and could get just about anything, including information.
The hum of the engine shifted as the plane began its descent. Chase looked out the window to see Santa Marta below, a sprawling city overflowing with humanity spilling out on a horseshoe bay.
The landing went smoothly. It didn’t take long to clear customs, then Chase hit the currency exchange. Information didn’t come cheap, even in a third-world country. With a conversion rate of sixteen pesos for every US dollar, he wound up stuffing his canvas satchel with Colombian banknotes.
As they made their way toward the exit, the airport seethed with humanity, people of every color, shape and size, speaking everything from Spanish to Japanese. Pushing through the door into the humid heat, Chase spotted the taxi line and guided Harper in that direction.
After a forty-minute ride in a cramped yellow Hyundai cab that wound its way through traffic to the east side of the city, the driver drove toward a motel a few kilometers off the highway that led to their destination, Punta Gato.
They were meeting a man named Killian Dawson, who had chosen the motel as their rendezvous point. According to Bran, whatever they might need, Kil Dawson could provide, including his help locating Michael Winston.
“You ready for this?” Chase asked Harper as the taxi pulled up in front of the Puesta Del Sol Motel, an L-shaped, flat-roofed, single-story structure painted an ugly mustard yellow.
Before she could answer, the driver opened her door and both of them got out. The driver popped the trunk and started unloading their bags onto the cracked sidewalk in front of the motel.
“You’ve had time to think things over,” Chase said. “It’s not too late to get back in the cab and head back to the airport. I’ll keep you posted on whatever’s going on down here.”
She just looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, slung the strap of her canvas bag over her shoulder, grabbed the handle of her carry-on and started walking. He couldn’t stop a grin as he watched those long shapely legs and very fine ass moving so determinedly toward the motel office, her carry-on bouncing along a concrete path with weeds growing up between the cracks. The shrubs beneath the office windows badly needed a trim.
Chase grabbed his carry-on and caught up with her. “Looks like you’ve made up your mind.”
She didn’t bother to answer, just paused as he opened the office door, then continued past him into a small room. The clerk, a tiny woman with long black hair streaked with gray, stood at the counter behind an ancient computer. She was expecting them.
“Senor Dawson, he is waiting for you,” she said in broken English. “You will find him in room fourteen.”
Harper smiled.“Gracias, senora.”She said something more in Spanish, which led to a brief conversation that seemed to put the older woman at ease. Chase had to admit, Harper’s ability to communicate was a definite asset.
Towing their luggage, they crossed the parking lot and Chase knocked on the door to room fourteen. Heavy footfalls sounded on the opposite side, and the door opened as far as the chain would allow.
“Chase Garrett,” he said. “You Killian Dawson?”
“Kil Dawson. That’s me.” Dawson unlocked the door and stepped aside, inviting them into a shabby room with worn avocado shag carpet and a sagging mattress covered by a threadbare gold bedspread.
He was a big man, as tall as Chase’s six-two but more heavily built, with a powerful chest and arms the size of Christmas hams. A deep scar bisected one dark eyebrow, another ran from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw.
“The lady is Harper Winston,” Chase said as Dawson closed the door behind them. “She’s here to find her brother.”
Dawson’s gaze swung to Harper, slid over her body, taking in her taller-than-average height and slender build, the blond hair she’d pulled into a ponytail. Since Harper was a beautiful woman any man with a dick would notice, Chase didn’t take offense—as long as Dawson kept his distance.
Dawson turned a hard look in Chase’s direction. “Bran said you were with a woman. I didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to bring her here.”
Chase didn’t take offense because bringing her was dumb. He returned the stare. “She was coming—with or without me. Didn’t leave me much choice.”
Dawson’s eyebrows went up when he caught the stubborn tilt of Harper’s chin, a trait Chase had noticed the first time she’d walked into his office.
