Deadly Promises

  Cav had arrived on a charter flight from Jakarta for an early morning appointment with the commerce minister, who had been the key to setting his plan in motion. Once he'd been wheels down on the tarmac at Mandalay International, there was no turning back.

  He was proceeding on blind faith now, counting on Wyatt to put everything into play from Georgia to ensure that Cav could get Carrie out of the country once he rescued her from her abductors. If he managed to rescue her.

  Cav watched the action fly by outside the car window. Men on small bicycles and motorcycles wove through streets glutted with battered taxies and city buses, while women on foot carried big bucket baskets filled with produce on the ends of long poles balanced on their shoulders. Colorful umbrellas covered merchandise lining the crowded throughways. City police wearing blue uniforms and carrying assault rifles stood on every corner.

  If their presence alone hadn't announced absolute military rule, the huge murals painted on the sides of buildings, depicting soldiers in front of a backdrop of the red, white, and blue Myanmar flag, would have.

  Cav let it all pass by in silence, his relaxed bearing as bogus as his cover story. As far as the CIA was concerned, he had a family emergency and was on personal leave. As far as the Junta government of Myanmar was concerned, Frank Windle was here, representing the interests of Horizons, International.

  Windle's false but well-known reputation as an unscrupulous player, willing to do business with oppressive military regimes, had placed him and HI on the International Dirty List--and, consequently, high on trade-agreement lists with corrupt military regimes.

  Would the CIA be happy to find out Cav was freelancing using his CIA cover? Not so much. Uncle would never sanction an official op to find one lost American. But by the time his handler discovered he'd gone off the grid it would be too late to stop him.

  Cav had counted on the Windle name to open back doors in the dirty underbelly of unethical international commerce. And since the military government backed all the unethical commerce in these parts, he had figured the trail would lead to Carrie Granger.

  He'd figured right. Carrie Granger, it seemed, was the victim of a bungled arrest, and the Myanmar government hoped to cover up its blunder simply by making her "go away."

  No evidence, no crime, no complicity.

  And no chance in hell was he going to let them get away with it.

  He glanced at the driver, who wore an olive drab uniform with a red patch on the upper sleeve. His matching helmet was standard military issue. Another soldier with an assault rifle rode shotgun. Cav's personal "security guard," who had been assigned as "protection" by General Maung Aye, the commerce minister, sat on the far side of the backseat, eyes forward.

  While Maung Aye had granted Cav access to the ruby mines, it was no surprise that he had not agreed to let Cav bring his own security detail for the overnighter up in the mountains. Cav had expected as much, and the driver and a couple of heavies he'd hired locally had been mostly for show. A fat cat American investor would be expected to travel with a protection detail, so he'd come equipped with all the bells and whistles.

  The fact that Cav was the only one in the vehicle without a gun spoke to the commerce minister's distrust. Smart man, Maung Aye.

  Cav was still holding his breath over the small backpack between his feet. He'd hidden a KA-Bar Warthog folding knife, an area map, a GPS locator, and his cell phone in a secret compartment in the specially designed metal frame. So far, the compartment had gotten by the quick, cursory search by the military--most likely because he'd been carrying a decoy cell and GPS that had been taken away from him despite his very vocal protest. He'd learned a long time ago that a little acting went a long way to deflect attention from what he really wanted to hide.

  It had been almost three days since Wyatt had called Cav. Seventy-two hours, and the promise of several hundred thousand kyat to grease palms, loosen lips, and open doors, to finally find out what had happened to Carrie Granger. Cav figured it was going to take roughly seventy-two acts of God to pull this off and get her out of the deep, deep trouble she was in.

  He settled in for a minimum five-hour ride, noting landmarks as they traveled. When the driver stopped a couple of hours out of the city and Cav's "security guard" gave him the option of placing a hood over his head himself or having one of them do it for him, it got even longer.

  Three

  The guard dogs--six mangy mixed-breed rottweiler types, all big, half starved, and trained to be mean--barked maniacally and tugged on their chains as the car approached the mining camp.

  Head down, her hands busy sifting through dirt and rock and debris, Carrie squinted against the late-afternoon sun as the vehicle snaked up the narrow road cut into the mountainside. Military vehicles came and went on a daily basis, hauling out the day's precious mineral finds and delivering supplies, so it wasn't unusual to see traffic.

  What was unusual was that when the car pulled into the main base and stopped by the commanding general's tent, a tall, dark-haired Caucasian man stepped out of the backseat.

  Oh, God.

  Her heart jumped when he stood and, hands on his hips, surveyed the mining site from behind his aviator sunglasses.

  Maybe he was American! Maybe the American embassy had found out what had happened to her and sent him to take her home!

  She took a step in his direction and opened her mouth to call out to him--and a long whipping stick promptly cracked across her shoulders. Gasping at the stinging pain, she fell to her hands and knees.

  "Work!" the guard ordered in Burmese. "Work!"

  Fire lanced across her shoulders, so sharp she could barely breathe, but if she didn't get to her feet soon there would be another blow. The throbbing wound on her ribs from when she'd tried to escape two days ago was a constant, painful reminder. She'd been lucky they hadn't let the dogs loose on her.

  Biting back a cry, she struggled to her feet, her gaze darting back to the man as she slowly resumed her work.

  He stood twenty yards away from her work station at the mouth of the mine. From that distance, even though she was taller than everyone else around her, she would look the same as the rest of the laborers. They all wore filthy, oversized gray shirts and pants and pointy straw hats. All were bent over their tasks, heads down, backs bowed.

  If he saw her he didn't give any indication. If he cared, he gave even less as the general emerged from the tent. The general extended his hand, offering a warm, hearty greeting, which the newcomer returned.

  Excitement zipped through every cell in her body as the two men exchanged a few words. Carrie sneaked furtive glances his way so she wouldn't draw the attention of the guard again. Even if the dogs' incessant barking hadn't interfered, the distance was too far for her to make out each word. Still, she heard enough to pick up a mix of Burmese and English. That knowledge set her heart rate on a crash course, then sent it plummeting when the general lifted a hand toward the tent, indicating they should go inside out of the heat.

  She had to get his attention. She had to get him to notice her.

  Desperate, she stared at his back and willed him to turn and look at her. Miraculously, he paused at the opening of the tent, turned, pulled off his dark glasses... and looked straight at her.

  Her heart nearly exploded.

  Their eyes connected.

  And she could have sworn he mouthed her name, just before he turned back to the tent. Then he disappeared, leaving her cursing the desperation of a mind that had just played a cruel trick on her.

  CAV REMOVED HIS shoes, as was the custom, before stepping inside the tent. Even though he felt physically ill at what he'd seen, he smiled his best shyster smile and accepted the shot of whiskey the general's aide offered on a sterling silver tray.

  Forgoing his pact with himself to swear off the booze, he downed the shot in one toss, not giving a damn that it wasn't scotch. He needed it. Gawddamn, he needed it. Not because he was tired and thirsty after the long ride over win
ding mountain roads. Not because he'd had a few moments of panic under the black hood that had been removed only a few minutes before they'd driven into the camp. Not even because he was now deeply embroiled in a rescue mission that had less than a snowball's chance in hell of success.

  He needed the booze after getting a glimpse of the horrific conditions of the slave laborers forced to work the ruby mine. He needed it because when he'd spotted the slim figure hunched over a crude flume and she'd lifted her head and met his gaze, beneath the rickshaw hat he had seen misery and hope and blue, blue eyes.

  He'd found Carrie Granger.

  And with one look he'd felt the full weight of her future on his shoulders.

  "Yeah." Cav nodded when the general offered him another shot. "Absolutely."

  He wrapped his fingers around the glass and smiled again for the general, who had clearly been given advance notice of his arrival by Maung Aye.

  Cav's Burmese was spotty, and given there were about a hundred different dialects in Myanmar, what he did know wasn't going to help him out very much. The general wasn't much better equipped to speak English, but it didn't matter. Their common language was greed and money. The promise of a lot of money.

  He extended the letter Maung Aye had provided, then stood in silence, arms folded over his chest, while the general read it. The amount of money that had exchanged hands between Windle and the commerce minister, plus the promise of under-the-table kickbacks, had bought his passage to the Mogok mines. By the time Maung Aye discovered the account on which he'd written a check was bogus, he and Carrie Granger would be well away from here. Or dead.

  In the meantime, greed and Windle's reputation--which the commerce minister had no doubt researched even before meeting with him--had given him carte blanche to explore the mines. The letter instructed the general to allow an up-close-and-personal inspection of the operation, because HI was supposedly contemplating infusing it with millions in investment capital.

  Love of money. The root of all evil. And the means to save Carrie Granger from rotting in this hell on earth.

  When the general handed the letter back with a nod, Cav breathed a silent sigh of relief. Another hurdle jumped.

  The general turned to his attendant, who promptly presented a serving tray filled with an assortment of food.

  "Hatamin sa pi bi la?" Have you eaten?

  "Mahou' pabu." No, Cav said, getting the gist of the offer and knowing enough Burmese to decline. "But later. First, business," he added in English and gestured, indicating he wished to leave the tent and tour the operation.

  His host nodded and said something to the aide, who quickly produced a hard hat and handed it to Cav.

  "Chezube." Cav added a nod to his thanks. After settling the battered gray hard hat on his head and slipping on his shoes and shades, he followed the general out into the sweltering heat.

  Even though he was prepared for what he would see, it was all he could do to keep from knocking the heads of the guards and inciting an insurrection. But the guards and the guns and the dogs numbered too many. Even though the slave laborers outnumbered their captors ten to one, in their poor physical condition they were no match for the Junta.

  Young men, old men, women, and children, all emaciated and covered in grime, hauled dirt and rocks in rickety wheelbarrows over steep, narrow paths. Others disappeared into the narrow mine opening carved into the mountain, hauling buckets hanging from poles balanced on their stooped shoulders.

  Metal clinked against stone as twenty or so people worked the flumes along the edge of an open pit. Carrie was among them, laboring to lift heavy, screen-bottomed trays out of murky water, then balance them on the edge of the flume in order to roll the stones trapped on the screen with their bare hands and search for the precious bloodred rubies.

  Even as she worked, head down, Cav knew she was watching him. He felt the desperation of her gaze on the back of his head like a tractor beam from twenty yards away. He wished he could give her some assurance that he was here to help her, but he couldn't risk blowing his plan sky high. He'd taken enough of a chance mouthing her name just before he'd ducked into the tent.

  He played the part of the cold, calculating investor, nodding in approval when the general explained the operation in a surprisingly understandable dialogue made up of Burmese, broken English, hand signals, and a little Indonesian thrown in for good measure. They spent two hours tromping along the edge of the open pits, into the mouth of the cave, and along the assembly line of workers and the dozen or so cages that acted as their sleeping quarters.

  The tour served three purposes. It put the general at ease with Cav's presence in the camp, and it gave Cav an opportunity to do a complete recon. It also left Cav's scent all over the place, which would slow down the dogs if they used them to track them when they blew this place.

  At the end of the second hour the sun was starting to set and Cav had seen what he needed to see. One road leading in. Same road leading out. A lot of thick, mountainous jungle in between.

  It was time to put phase two into play and hope to hell he could keep on his timetable. Everything hinged on timing.

  "Thirsty." He tipped his hand up to his mouth to mimic taking a drink. "Hungry," he added, patting his stomach. "We can finish the tour tomorrow morning."

  The general nodded that he understood and turned back toward his tent.

  Cav stopped him with a hand on his arm, then grinned a man-to-man grin, propped his sunglasses on top of his head, and cupped his crotch. His request was unmistakable. He wanted sex.

  The general's smile was lascivious. This man was no stranger to depravity.

  "Belao'le?" Cav asked. How much?

  The general shrugged and swept out a hand that encompassed the entire workforce, indicating that for the right price Cav could have his pick. A woman. A man. A child.

  Cav controlled the urge to shoot the twisted bastard with his own gun.

  "Woman." He pressed open palms to his chest.

  When the general shared a lewd smile and dispatched his aide to select a woman, Cav stopped him again. This was the tricky part.

  "Anglo?" he asked.

  The general's congenial smile turned to a frown.

  Don't want me anywhere near the American woman, do you, you slimy bastard? Carrie Granger's arrest and sentencing had been a mistake, one the government honchos had found out about too late to fix. Now all they wanted was to hide any evidence that it had ever happened, to avoid an international incident. And, of course, to get some work out of her while they kept her alive, just in case she might be of future use as a diplomatic pawn.

  "Belao'le?" Cav repeated, pulled his wallet out, and peeled off several bills.

  When the general showed wary interest, Cav added to the stack and kept adding until the general's greed took priority over his fear of possible reprisal. After all, his commanding officers weren't here. They didn't need to know.

  Cav drew a breath of relief when, with a crisp nod, the general pocketed the bills and nodded to his aide, who trotted toward the woman whose life wouldn't be worth a plug nickel if this op unraveled.

  Four

  All of Carrie's senses jumped into overdrive.

  Something was happening.

  The American--after hearing more snippets of conversation she'd decided he was definitely American--had been touring the labor camp and mine site for the better part of the afternoon. Blood pounding with adrenaline and fear, she'd made two unsuccessful attempts to get his attention, pulling back each time for fear of being caught. And now the general's aide was heading toward her.

  Her heart went haywire as she glanced at the American. His gaze was intent on her the entire time, almost like he was warning her. To what? Stay silent? Stay put? To do as she was told? What was he trying to tell her? Or, in her desperation, was she merely imagining it?

  He didn't make any gestures. His lips didn't move. He just stood by the general's side, quietly watching her. When the aide reached her and m
otioned with the barrel of his rifle that she was to move, she glanced his way again.

  He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

  Hope spiked to new levels of desperation.

  Head down, eyes on the ground, she struggled for balance as the aide shoved her roughly down the path.

  Her knees felt like rubber as she stumbled toward them barefoot over bruising rocks and blistering hot dust. Her breath was rapid and shallow. And her heart went absolutely over the top crazy when she stopped in front of him. Not daring to meet his eyes, she prayed every prayer she knew that he was here to help her, and that she wouldn't do anything to screw it up.

  The general barked an order to his aide. Her pulse thundered through her ears and she didn't understand a word... until a harsh hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and, with a hard tug, ripped it off her shoulders.

  She recoiled in shock, fighting back a scream as she instinctively crossed her arms over her bare breasts.

  Someone yelled and she realized it was the aide, barking at her to uncover herself. Eyes wide in a plea for compassion, she shook her head and backed several steps away. Two guards immediately flanked her. They each grabbed a wrist, then jerked her arms away from her body, forcing her to stand there completely exposed, humiliated, vulnerable, and terrified.

  "Adequate," the American said in a flat voice.

  The cold assessment in his voice chilled her, as did his eyes. His gaze raked her body like she was a piece of meat, lingering on her breasts before rising to her face. Then the bastard stepped forward, gripped her jaw, and turned her head from side to side.

  "Yes. She'll do."

  Beyond humiliated, beyond caution, and unable to fight the gathering tears, she met his dark eyes. "Help me," she whispered. "Please... please help me."

  She received a cold glare for her efforts. "Clean her up," he said to the general. "Then bring her to me."

  He smiled then. A calculating, predatory smile laced with an ugly carnal heat, and he shared a laugh with the general.