Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(39)

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 winding 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.