“You’re the disguise master.
Any suggestions?”

“You’ve never wanted to take the suggestions I made a few weeks ago, Samantha. Why ask me now?” Daniel’s eyes bored into her, demanded answers she didn’t want to face.

“I only-”

“Only what? You told me you could manage anything Finders, Inc. handed you. You accused me of misjudging you, of refusing to acknowledge your abilities. And a whole lot of other things.” His amber eyes glittered hard, cold. “I’m only here because you said you needed help.”

Meaning she’d proven she wasn’t able to handle this case on her own. If only she’d never said it, never uttered those horrible words. Sam had only counted on hurting him as he’d hurt her. What she hadn’t considered was that Daniel wouldn’t forgive her.

“You’re in charge here, Sam. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out….”

LOIS RICHER

Sneaking a flashlight under the blankets, hiding in a thicket of Caragana bushes where no one could see, pushing books into socks to take to camp—those are just some of the things Lois Richer freely admits to in her pursuit of the written word. “I’m a book-a-holic. I can’t do without stories,” she confesses. “It’s always been that way.”

Her love of language evolved into writing her own stories. Today her passion is to create tales of personal struggle that lead to triumph over life’s rocky road. For Lois, a happy ending is essential.

Silent Enemy
Lois Richer

MILLS & BOON

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We are pressed on every side by troubles, but not crushed and broken. We are perplexed because we don’t know why things happen as they do, but we don’t give up. We are hunted down, but God never abandons us. We get knocked down, but we get up again and keep going.

—II Corinthians 4:8–9

This book is lovingly dedicated

to the men and women around the globe who

sacrifice so much to bring the good news to all

people. Thank you is not enough.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The shipments came in short last time.”

“What would I know about that? I just deliver the merchandise.”

“El Señor does not like shortages.”

“Then he should talk to his supplier. I’m just the delivery man.” He tucked the cello-wrapped packets in under the boxes of supplies, adjusted the load so the tarp covered everything. When all was secure, he went to the office, used the pay phone.

“A small brown box will be waiting for you at the Grand Hotel Bolivia. You know what to do. Fail and you will pay dearly.”

“The money?”

“There are a list of stops. You will be paid at each. Don’t mess up.”

He hung up the phone, poured himself a cup of coffee and spent some time perusing a newspaper. When he saw the tired old car coming, he went back to the plane and adjusted his cargo one more time. Nothing was out of place.

“You have loaded it all?”

“Absolutely everything.” He helped the older man into his seat, then slammed the door shut. After radioing the tower, they taxied onto the runway. Soon the tiny plane crested over the rain forest.

“Why don’t you continue with your story, Padre?”

By the time he reached the airstrip bordering the compound, he had all the information he needed.

ONE

“The most effective disguise isn’t.”

Samantha Henderson drew the tattered edges of Bertha-the-street-lady’s shawl around her and wondered if her boss had ever been reduced to this.

Not likely.

The slap of footsteps paused, stopped just behind her. She made sure the brim of Bertha’s straw hat hid her face.

“Look around. She’s got to be here.”

Varga!

Sam hunched over, hacked out a loud, chesty cough and turned it into a long-winded rumble that suggested an unhealthy lung condition. After a loud expletive, the feet moved a safer distance away.

“What do I do now? He’ll kill me if he finds out I lost her.”

“Check the market. If I find her, I’ll hang on to her. We’ve got to be there at four. Now go. El Zopilote doesn’t like complications.”

Four? Sam checked her watch. She had to be ready to move, and that meant getting rid of this disguise. If that statue was going anywhere, she had to know. That’s why she was there.

El Zopilote—The Vulture. Was he the buyer? She’d assumed Varga was a small-time thief, the other guy a pal he’d paid to help. But if they both worked for this el Zopilote…

The wind played with her hat, tugged it against its thin strings. She reached to grab it, noticed Bertha’s nod. Time to go.

While Varga had his back turned, Samantha limped over to the black wrought-iron fence that led to a courtyard, one of many in Lima. This one had a bougainvillea tree in full flower—good cover. From here she could look out onto the square. Varga and friend loped across the busy street.

She tossed her hat onto the ground, peeled off her ratty shawl, voluminous skirt and peasant blouse until all she wore were her jeans and T-shirt. Relief from the heat of two layers of clothing swept across her darkened skin. Repeatedly applying the self-tanner had ensured she was as dark as any native Peruvian, but now she needed a new look. She undid her braids, finger-combed her hair loose so that it shielded her face. Now she looked like a tourist.

While unearthing her backpack from the brambles of the tree, Sam peeked through the branches. On the corner across the street, Varga stood speaking to his friend. He had a package tucked under one arm.

So he still had the statue. Sam pulled on her sunglasses, ducked out of her hiding place and ambled down the street to a bench half a block down. She sat, picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. Following Juan Varga wasn’t the problem. Figuring out why he did the things he did was. He should have handed the statue over long ago instead of traipsing across South America. If el Zopilote had something to do with his actions, maybe this four o’clock meeting would give her an opportunity to find out why.

Making informed decisions about her next move was impossible. All she could do was follow Varga and wait for answers. In the meantime, she’d check in. She dialed Finders, Inc. and waited. For the third time in three days she couldn’t get through. After several attempts she tried a different number. The phone rang endlessly.

A two-hour time difference between here and the offices in Victoria meant that a certain someone who kept erratic hours should be in to take her call on his private line. Except that Daniel McCullough did not pick up. Either the phone system wasn’t working properly or her cell phone was faulty. Both major mistakes for an agent of her experience.

Samantha wasn’t where she was supposed to be. In fact she hadn’t made contact with another agent since yesterday and that hadn’t been through Finders’ regular channels. Nothing about this recovery was going according to plan. In desperation, she called a local number she’d been given for emergencies. A nonhuman voice asked her to leave a message.

“This is Samantha Henderson. I’m in Lima, still with Varga, who is smuggling the statue from location to location. No idea why. I tried the office, couldn’t get through. Sorry.”

Her target was on the move again.

Sam shoved her phone in her pocket, hitched her pack over her shoulder and followed, using the flush of tourists as cover. When he rented a car, she did the same. When Varga climbed on a northbound train, Sam followed, near enough to keep an eye on him, far enough away that most people would think she was part of a tourist group snapping pictures.

Four o’clock came and went as the train chugged in and out of villages, carrying them toward the Andes. When Varga bedded down in his sleeper, Sam kept watch, but her suspicions worked overtime. The man was too casual, as if something had changed, and yet he talked to no one, received no phone calls. He simply rode the train. Three days later she was dirty, tired and fed up when he finally disembarked in Iquitos, doorway to the Amazon.

Varga checked into a hotel long enough to eat, shower and change. Sam bought a new shirt, scrubbed up in the hotel washroom, then waited outside the restaurant until he took off again, across the city this time. When he finally arrived at a small wharf, she tried her phone again, hoping for advice.

“Daniel?”

“Sam? I can hardly hear you.”

The line went dead. She hovered near the pay phones, but had barely finished dialing when Varga and two men who’d obviously been waiting for him climbed aboard a vessel and prepared to take off.

Sam edged closer, pretended to negotiate with a fish seller. Varga and company were boisterous, almost jubilant as they prepared to cast off. She couldn’t hear everything, but the words el Padre Dulce were repeated several times. It sounded like they were traveling upriver to meet this person. Sam had to follow. The question was how.

As Varga’s boat pulled out of the harbor, she made up her mind and approached an older man who was loading boxes onto his flat boat.

“Hola, señor!” In rapid Spanish she asked the man about el Padre Dulce. He nodded and began gesticulating, explaining that he was taking these gifts from an unknown beneficiary to the padre. Was she, too, traveling to see him?

“Sí,” she agreed, smiling widely. The man, Ramon, offered to take her with him. The padre apparently loved visitors. Once the cargo was safely stowed, they were soon chugging down the river.

Ramon had a pair of binoculars that Sam borrowed. Several times she spotted Varga ahead of them. The other boat’s erratic speed puzzled her—sometimes they revved far ahead, sometimes they barely moved—until she saw a bottle go flying overboard and realized the men were drinking. Ramon kept his speed steady, pointed out a toucan that stretched overhead. To relax she concentrated on finding species of birds she already knew: capped heron and three species of kingfishers. But her nerves remained tightly strung.

If only she could figure out why Varga was taking this trip.

The humidity added to her growing misgivings as the river drew them along its coiling, rasping course. The jungle, lush and teeming with life, hung on either side—beautiful, lowering, and filled with foreboding shadows. Every so often a waterfall cascaded down a smooth rock face in staircases carved by time.

The waning afternoon light moved in cubes as the forest grew thicker, bushy, dense and even more humid. Still the boats chugged along. With nothing else to do, Sam harked back to that conversation in Daniel’s office.

You can’t be a loner. You have to follow the rules, Samantha. Just like everyone else. And that includes reporting in, no matter where you are.

She grimaced, pulled out her phone and dialed Finders, Inc. again. “It’s me. I’ve left Lima and am—hello?” They’d been cut off. “So much for your rules, Daniel.”

She slid the phone closed, but a moment later reopened it and dialed again, this time to the routing service Finders had set up to pass on messages from their agents in the field.

“I’m following the statue, as ordered,” she said, after identifying herself. “Varga has been joined by two men. I think they work for el Zopilote, whoever that is. Please investigate that name, see if you can find some background. I believe he’s the one who’s giving the orders, or perhaps buying the statue from Varga.”

Daniel would be surprised she was adhering to his rules so closely, but she wanted that promotion. She tucked the phone back into the pocket of her jeans, leaned against some boxes, constantly scanning the area. Every pore of her body sensed a threat—silent for now, but present nonetheless.

Ramon shared his bread and cheese with her, assured her they were on the right path to this el Padre’s place. Five hours later they finished the last of his sodas. What seemed like aeons after that the motor began to sputter. Sam’s misgivings escalated when her phone showed no signal. She had no means of telling anyone exactly where she was.

When the sputtering grew worse, Ramon steered toward shore and shut the motor off. She could hear the steady put-putting of the other boat not far ahead. At least she hadn’t lost them. Yet.

“What’s wrong?”

Ramon poked and probed the motor. “El carburador.” Carburetor. He grinned when the engine coughed to life.

Given the amount of black smoke they were spewing, Sam worried the other boat would come back to investigate, but as their boat limped along, hugging the shoreline, she caught glimpses of the other craft. Forest-green turned to gray, then brown, then purple as the sunlight faded.

“Can’t you do something?” she begged, peering through the binoculars. She couldn’t see or hear Varga’s boat.

“I’m sorry, señorita. It is an old boat and we must go slowly. Perhaps when we get to el Padre’s camp, he will help us.”

El Padre Dulce. That name again. Sweet Father—an odd title certainly. But Sam wasn’t looking to find a priest. She wanted to know why Varga had come here with the statue.

“El Padre Dulce is a good man. All the people here love him very much.” Ramon patted the engine with pride. “He helped me buy this boat. He helps many people. Today I am bringing him gifts.”

“I’m sure he’s wonderful,” she agreed. “But I was hoping we would catch up with the other boat.”

“All will be well, señorita. God cares for his children. Do not worry.”

How did you argue with that? As the muddy water slid past, Samantha gave up pretending she was in control. Here on the river she was exposed, vulnerable. Using her GPS, she quickly sent the coordinates to Finders’ satellite—just in case. Maybe it was those fingers of dusk creeping down the banks like a stalker, or maybe it was the cackling sound emanating from the forest that freaked her, but her internal radar now switched to high.

The motor coughed, wheezed and then stopped again. Ramon paddled toward the bank.

“Señorita, I must work on this motor. It is not much farther. Perhaps you wish to walk on shore while I work?” Clearly he didn’t want her bugging him while he fiddled with the motor.

Since Sam desperately needed some privacy and a bush, she left her backpack on the bench of the boat, climbed over the hull and jumped onto the beach. Ramon watched her for a moment, and then began to quietly hum as he unveiled the inner workings of his machine. Sam chose a secluded area. Five minutes later she emerged from the grove of trees and froze.

The boat was gone. Poor Ramon floated facedown in the water, a knife sticking out of his back.

Sam swallowed her cry, aware that the killer could be very close, waiting for her. Where was Ramon’s God now? She’d never believed all that stuff about God loving everyone anyway. She didn’t need Him now, either. She’d manage on her own. She was used to that.

Varga, or one of his cohorts must have done this. Ramon had told her the jungle natives of this area were friendly, especially to el Padre Dulce’s friends. Ramon had even waved to a tribal group who stood solemnly on shore, watching as they moved past.

Sam listened for several moments. No motor sounds, no laughing voices, nothing but the soft lap of water against the shore. She inventoried her surroundings and made a decision. Without a boat, climbing uphill was the only way to scout out the land. Trampling through the thick ferny undergrowth proved how quickly the light was fading. She reached the uppermost ridge and looked around. Varga’s boat lay in a little cove several hundred yards downstream. Ramon’s boat was there, too, but the crates and boxes he’d so carefully loaded were missing. She turned around.

A flash of light flickered through the trees. Perhaps the padre’s camp was nearer than she thought. Perhaps Varga was already there, exchanging the statue.

Going forward could be dangerous, but going back was impossible. She walked toward the light. Progress through the damp, slippery forest was difficult in loose sandals, but her sneakers were in her backpack, on the boat. She moved carefully, deliberately choosing each step. Five hundred feet along the ridge Samantha suddenly lost her footing and tumbled down the embankment. The world spun round like a crazy kaleidoscope, punctuated by stabs of bright light and darkness. Her head smacked against a rock at the same time that her ribs met resistance against the forest’s bulging roots.

Samantha fought to stop herself, but the vines were too slippery. She tumbled farther into the impenetrable darkness until at last she came to rest against something big and hard and damp. Pain rolled in waves over her body. She opened her mouth to cry out, then shut it, remembering Ramon’s spread-eagled body floating facedown. A black cloud hovered just above her. She tried to remain awake but her brain wouldn’t obey.

With a little sigh, Sam closed her eyes as the truth hit.

Daniel was right. She wasn’t ready for promotion.

Something was wrong.

Daniel McCullough had built his career around his intuition, had escaped death more than once because he followed his instinct. At the moment it was screaming a warning, but this warning had nothing to do with him.

Samantha.

He jumped as the phone squawked its summons, told himself to get a grip. “Yes?”

“It’s Miss Henderson, Daniel. They’ve tracked her cell. She’s called us a number of times. Communications has found messages and some GPS coordinates.”

“Let me hear the messages, Evelyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later Sam’s voice filled the room, quiet, steady, determined. If he closed his eyes, Daniel could see her standing there, her shawl of raven black hair cascading down to her waist, emerald eyes bright, focused and unafraid.

“Sir?”

Daniel blinked, realized his assistant had been waiting for several minutes. “Tape it and bring me a copy. I want someone in communications working on her reports full-time. Investigations should check out this el Zopilote. I want to know who he is, what his interest in the statue is. Make a copy of the tape for them. Ask the lab to distinguish some of the background sounds. And have her GPS signal mapped, will you? If anyone hears anything from Samantha Henderson they are to report immediately to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Not long after that his assistant returned, placed the tape on his desk, then left.

Daniel picked up the tape, the same old nerve rat-tatting its warning. Over and over he listened to her voice, each time telling himself he was a fool to have let her go, each time wondering if he’d ever get a chance to apologize. He waited impatiently for the first report to arrive and then pored over the map. “You’re sure this is right?”

“As far as we can tell she was in the Andes, traveling down the Amazon when she sent it. The signal was weak, but identifiable.”

The lab verified that the background sounds were consistent with canopy birds in the Amazon. But still no one was able to reach Sam on her cell phone. Daniel offered himself the comforts he usually dispensed to others in situations like this. She was fine. She’d call in shortly. It was just a communications glitch. He didn’t believe himself.

Investigations were the last to report in. “I’m sorry, sir. We have no one who fits the name el Zopilote. There’s nothing in our intelligence files to lead us in any particular direction.”

“Keep looking.” Daniel chewed his bottom lip while suspicions kept nagging at him—that Samantha Henderson had stepped into a school of piranha.

As CEO of Finders, Inc., Daniel was used to sending agents all over the world to track lost or missing items for its clients. Just because he’d ordered Samantha Henderson to Brazil to recover a statue did not mean she wasn’t going to experience problems. In their line of work nothing was ever a sure thing, but that held especially true in Samantha’s cases. Wait a minute—he’d sent her to Brazil, not Peru.

“You remind me of Grant, all hunched over in your chair, glaring at the desk.” Shelby Kincaid-Austen stood in the doorway, watching him.

“Hey, Shel. C’mon in.”

Grant Kincaid had been Daniel’s commanding officer in Special Ops training. The two had become fast friends when both were assigned to covert work in Malaysia. It was Grant who’d appreciated Daniel’s ability at disguise—an ability Daniel had gained from years of practice avoiding news hounds whose stories unfailingly painted Daniel as the heir apparent to McCullough International. Thanks to Grant, Daniel had completed many successful missions pretending to be someone else, someone without a past.

“You’re wishing he was here, aren’t you?” Shelby asked.

He nodded. Special Ops was ugly, a place Grant had grown tired of after he met Shelby. By then Daniel also wanted a more stable lifestyle, so the three had decided to form their own recovery agency. Finders, Inc. was born. That choice had freed Daniel from the expectations his father’s empire had always engendered and allowed him to do his job disguised as anyone he wanted to be.

“Do you wish you could walk away from here, Daniel?” Shelby touched his shoulder. “I’m very grateful you’ve been running the business since Grant’s death, but you don’t have to stay at Finders, Inc. You don’t owe me or the company a thing. You loved fieldwork. Would you prefer to go back to it?”

“Not at the moment. Staying in one place for more than a day has benefits.” He winked. “The vicarious thrills are easier on this old body than firsthand contact. Don’t worry. My life is okay even if it isn’t chock-full of a daughter and a new husband,” he teased.

“Your life could be very full, Daniel.”

She didn’t say it but he knew she saw past his facade. Shelby was probably the only person in the whole building who could have guessed he was worried about Sam.

“I’m fine, Shel.”

“No, you’re not. You coop yourself up in here for eighteen hours a day, worrying about things you can’t change. You need to get out once in a while. With someone.” Her scolding mother-hen glare challenged him to deny it.

“Maybe.” Been there, done that. Didn’t work. He changed topics. “I was thinking about Finders’ rules. We’ve only ever had three. Maybe it’s time we looked at them again.”

“Three are all we need. Complete anonymity for the client. Nothing illegal and every job completed. Why change what works?”

“Maybe they need updating.” Maybe someone should be grading him on his ability to judge character, he felt like saying. “After all, we’re changing. Tim’s on board now. Maybe we need to rethink things.”

Daniel stayed at Finders because Shelby had asked him to. He never wanted her to know that sometimes, when everyone went home to their families, he sat in the dark, waiting for news of another success, feeling trapped by the office and its never-ending demands.

He could never tell her he yearned to don one of his disguises and take off, because he knew the temptation to get back to working in the field hid a deeper longing, one that had a lot to do with a certain frustrating brunette who had cast him as the bad guy in her world.

“Don’t second-guess yourself, Daniel. You sent Sam because she knows what she’s doing.”

“I hope so. We’ve lost communication with her.”

“She’ll call back.” She headed for the door. “It’s just a statue, Daniel.”

“That was supposed to stay in Brazil,” he reminded, but Shelby had already left. Ignoring the sheaves of files loading down his desk, Daniel moved to the glass wall of his office and looked down onto the semicircular floors stacked below, each one housing an integral part of the finely tuned mechanism called Finders, Inc. All this technology and yet…

Sam was fine. Maybe she had needed to go undercover or had a change in plans. Sam knew her job. She was one of the best recovery specialists Finders had ever employed. It was the job she’d applied for that Daniel had been worried about. He’d turned down her request for promotion the same day the Brazil job came up. Samantha’s departure from his office had been abrupt, bitter. Daniel regretted what he’d said, but there was no way now to take it back.

“Can I bother you again?”

Daniel blinked at the blurry figure in the doorway, fumbled for his glasses. Shelby. “You’re still here?” He squinted at his watch. “Shouldn’t you be home with Aimee? Tim checked out a while ago.” He glanced at the security monitor on his desk, registered the notation.

“As soon as he comes back, home is where I’m headed. In the meantime, Aimee sent you a gift. I forgot to give it to you this morning.” Shelby dropped a picture drawn by her young daughter onto the desk. “She said you’d know what it is.”

He moved back to the desk, sat down behind it and picked up the colorful piece of paper. He wanted to groan. Two figures with black capes stood opposite each other holding what Daniel guessed were swords.

“Do you know what it means?”

“Enemies,” he explained sheepishly. “When she stopped by last week, Aimee overheard me arguing with someone. That engendered a long discussion about enemies. I guess she’s reminding me to forgive and forget.”

As if Daniel could ever forget Samantha’s words.

You cheated me, Daniel. I can do that job with my hands tied and you know it. He could still see the hurt at the back of her eyes. Hurting people—you, your father. Is that a McCullough trait?

“Daniel?”

He blinked, saw Shelby’s frown.

“Sorry. Daydreaming.” He hid his embarrassment by grabbing Aimee’s picture and fixing it to his filing cabinet with a magnet.

“Samantha told me you turned down her application to supervise.”

He glanced sideways at her, wondering if he should have run that one past her, but Shelby anticipated his thoughts and shook her head.

“I’m not second-guessing you, Daniel.”

“Thanks.”

“I know you have to make tough decisions for Finders, but I also know that you’re fair. If you think Sam isn’t ready for additional responsibility, then I agree.”

He should have been relieved by her confidence—instead he wondered if she was mistaken to put so much trust in him.

Shelby’s beeper paged. “That’s Tim. He’s waiting for me. I’d better go.” She stepped around the desk, leaned over and hugged him, the touch of her lips brief against his cheek. “Maybe I forget to tell you sometimes but you’re doing a great job here, Daniel. Know that Tim and I both appreciate all you’ve sacrificed to give us the time and space we need in this new marriage.”

“I only want to see you happy, Shel. Tim makes you happy. Aimee, too. I’m glad.”

“Me, too.” She didn’t need to say more. Her face glowed. “Good night.”

“’Night, Shel.” A flicker of envy went through him. His whole life he’d wanted to know how that kind of love felt. It had never happened. Probably never would now. Daniel pushed away the longing, turned back to the computer. He pulled up a map of Brazil, traced Sam’s progress from the moment she’d landed in Rio, traveled to Horizonte, then São Paulo. It made no sense to go to Peru. He’d seen no Intel that connected the statue to anyone there.

You don’t trust me, Daniel. You never have. Is that because you don’t trust yourself?

It wasn’t trust that tortured him—it was guilt. His choices had wreaked havoc on his world ever since a day long ago when he’d still been a boy.

Peru. In his mind he heard the thunder of breakers in the surf, smelled the briny salt water, saw pristine white sails unfurl in a freshening wind. His skin grew warm from the tropical sun and he longed to cool off by diving into that gorgeous azure water and play with the porpoises. That was the tourist view.

But there was a darker, more sinister side to the land. Drugs, poverty, abuse, crime syndicates—each as dangerous as the piranha that infested the waters. People could disappear without a trace in Peru.

“Be careful, Samantha. Be very careful.”

TWO

Forcing her eyelids apart, Samantha peeked out from under them and winced at the bright sunlight splashing on her face. She slipped her tongue over her dry, cracked lips, felt a hand slide under her neck.

“You are safe,” a gentle voice murmured. “Sleep now.”

When she woke up the second time, Sam was lying on a woven mat in some kind of hut made of huge leaves and poles. Her sandals sat against the wall. A girl appeared, touched her forehead and then smiled.

“Nonee,” she said, pointing at herself.

“Hello, Nonee.” Sam introduced herself. She followed the girl’s bidding, sat up and chewed on the bit of breadlike food she was given while Nonee combed her hair, tenderly washed her face, then left. She returned with a big, burly man—like a teddy bear with a smile. He wore a crudely carved wooden cross on a leather cord around his neck.

“Hello.”

She recognized the voice from earlier. “You’re the padre Ramon told me about,” Sam blurted out.

“Yes, I am the padre. Are you all right?” His concerned gaze took in her tattered clothes, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. “Nothing broken?”

Sam wiggled a bit, winced when her body protested. “Fine, I think. Just a little sore. I hit my head.” She was drawn in by his eyes—kind, gentle eyes that promised understanding. “I’m sorry if I gate-crashed your compound. I—I was running away.”

“There has been unrest in the jungle today. Things are not as they seem.”

“Then I should go.” She tried to get up and felt his big hand under her elbow, supporting her until she could stand on her own. “Thank you for helping me.”

“My dear, we are all God’s children. It is our duty to help one another.” Again he smiled and Sam could not look away from the peace she glimpsed in his face. She found herself longing to experience it personally.

A few moments later a gunshot broke the silence of the place. Birds squawked, children cried, a woman thrust her head into the hut and, in a frightened whisper, muttered, “El Señor.” The padre’s face tightened, but otherwise he gave nothing away, merely touched her hand to calm her and murmured a few indistinguishable words. Then he handed Sam her sandals.

“You are not safe here. Put on your shoes and then go with Nonee. Hide until I have dealt with this. Do not give yourself away. A man with evil in his heart is near. He will hurt you. Be very careful.” He touched her cheek then left.

Nonee bent and pointed to a small hole in the wall of the hut. Samantha began to crawl through the opening. At the last moment she saw her cell phone lying on the ground and snatched it up.

They emerged at the back of a group of huts, behind most of the furor. Nonee led the way upward, darting from dense thickets of eucalyptus trees through waist-high ferns, past huts where women ushered their little ones inside. Sam was so busy looking she almost bumped into Nonee, who had stopped abruptly and was now clearing away some limbs and debris from the base of a huge tree. After a moment a carved-out spot appeared in the trunk. This was the hiding place?

Nonee allowed no time for examination. She crawled in, and yanked on Samantha’s hand for her to follow. Once they were both inside, she pulled back the branches and arranged them so that they had only the smallest peephole to see through.

Nonee looked through it just once. Apparently she didn’t like what she saw, for she crossed her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, eyes closed, lips moving. At first Sam thought she was praying, until Nonee held out her palm, offering some of the raw white paste lying on it.

“Bazuko,” she offered, her voice hoarse. The word was familiar. A by-product of the cocaine-making process, bazuko was often used as a tranquilizer by the natives. Sam shook her head, turned back to watch.

Sounds from the camp were dimmer inside this secret cave. Voices raised loud in argument echoed toward them in fits and bursts. She could see two men standing on either side of the padre. They shook their fists, demanded something. The padre shook his head, and glared at a man dressed in tall boots and khakis who stood to one side. This was clearly the boss. Perhaps this was the el Zopilote she’d heard about.

Whoever he was, he said something Samantha couldn’t hear. This time the priest waved his hand, encompassing the compound as he shook his head vehemently. El Zopilote or whatever his name was snapped out a command, ending the argument. Two men grabbed the padre and dragged him into the center of the camp where they bound him to a tree. The man she’d named el Zopilote stood with his back to Sam. In loud, clear Spanish he told the entire group that what had been stolen must be returned; he asked them to find it.

Furious and indignant, the padre insisted he leave, that they had nothing that belonged to him. The khaki man sneered, said something Sam didn’t catch. Moments later the sound of a gunshot rang through the forest. The padre’s head sank to his chest as the light in his eyes faded to nothing.

“No, oh no,” she breathed, flinching but unable to tear her gaze from the horrible sight. When the murderer turned, she saw his face head-on, felt the pierce of his stare as if he could see through the trees and branches to the very spot where she hid. The evil in those eyes stabbed through her. Sam knew she’d never forget the feeling.

He gave an order and men began to tear the camp apart, obviously looking for something. They worked their way up the hill toward her, so close she could have reached out and touched them. Sam crawled backward until she bumped against something. In the gloom of her tree-cave her fingers trailed over the impediment, identified a chest of some sort. She leaned against it, held her breath as the footsteps came ever nearer. Nonee was shaking, sweating. Samantha wrapped an arm around her until the steps moved away.

After a few moments the dank smell of smoke permeated the air. Sam peeked out, surveyed the devastation. Many of the huts were burning as the natives stood watching, helpless against this onslaught. Children cried, women wept. The men held fisted hands at their sides.

El Zopilote said one word, then he and his men left. The sound of high-powered boat engines cut through the forest, silencing even the birds. In fact, everything seemed to go still as if mourning the loss of the kindly padre—until the drone of an airplane overhead brought awful reality back.

Sam would have moved then, but Nonee held her back and pointed. Outside Varga scanned the compound. Sam’s fingers clenched into the dirt, startled at the cool press of metal against her palm. She glanced down, saw a small gold disk half-buried by the earth. As she turned to pick it up, she saw a second, then a third coin lying by the edge of the chest. It was too dark in the cave to examine them so she stuck them in her pocket. Nonee’s hand grabbed her arm. Varga was moving toward them!

They pressed themselves against the back of the cave as a machete shoved through the branches and plunged into the ground in front of them. He grunted, removed the blade and moved on. A snake slid down a vine less than a foot in front of them, moved through the leaves and disappeared. Sam held her breath to stop the scream.

They waited for hours.

Finally Sam heard Varga’s boat chugging back down the river. Through her peephole the compound looked deserted. Dusk dulled the atmosphere and smoke hung like wispy tapestries. El Padre lay where he had died. Though darkness was falling, no one lit a fire or set alight the torches. Murmurs and soft sobs filled the camp. It seemed the world was in mourning.

Nonee pointed to her sandals, made walking motions with her fingers. Sam nodded, glancing at the chest. Perhaps it had belonged to the padre, the treasure he couldn’t take to heaven. Before she could look inside, Nonee’s grip on her arm cut off all further thought as they slipped out of their hideaway.

Like thieves, they stole through the jungle, Nonee sure-footed as she found trails in the growing night. Weary, aching and heartsick, all Sam could do was keep following. Finally shards of light began to pierce the forest canopy. Nonee led the way onto a suspended bridge that spanned at least one-third of a mile and rose a hundred feet off the ground. Heights had never been Sam’s forte, but going back wasn’t an option. She gritted her teeth, looked straight ahead and tiptoed until she was sure the fragile construction would hold her weight. Connected by tree platforms, the bridge offered a spectacular view of the rain forest. Given other circumstances and more security, she might have admired the view. Today she could only think of the padre and the way his life had been snuffed out.

Like a band warming up, a cacophony of barbets, toucans and red-throated caracara joined the morning chorus of birdsong in swelling appreciation of dawn. The jungle steamed in reams of cloud upon the eyelash of the forest, as Peruvians termed it. Odors of decay and exotic floral perfumes mingled now, more pungent as heat mustered strength and crept up on the day. Drops of sweat pearled on Samantha’s body, yet still they pushed on through the jungle.

She reckoned it was near midmorning before they emerged on a road, at the outskirts of a small settlement. Nonee motioned for her to stay, to wait.

“Adios, mi amigo,” Nonee whispered in halting Spanish, touching Sam’s cheek with her fingertips. She smiled then she disappeared into the forest.

“Adios, chiquita. Muchas gracias.”

Too tired to walk farther and with no idea which way to go, Samantha elected to wait. When she saw a bus trundling toward her, she reached into her pocket, hoping she’d find something to pay her fare. Her fingers closed around the coins and she drew them out to the light.

“Oh, my.” Her hands shook so badly she could hardly turn them over to examine the other side. Not that she had to. She knew these coins as clearly as she knew her own name.

They were identical to the one Daniel wore around his neck on a thin gold chain. The coin he’d always refused to talk about.

Sam pocketed two of them, offered the third to pay her fare. The driver took it, put it between his teeth to check the gold consistency and finally nodded. She took a seat in the half-full bus and closed her eyes, reliving the past few hours as the vehicle bounced and jounced over the rough road.

Ramon, the poor, dead padre, these coins—whatever she’d stumbled into was about more than a statue gone missing. This was something darker, something more complex. She needed help. But if she asked, Daniel might take that as an admittance that she couldn’t do her job.

They went through several small villages, dropping off or picking up passengers. At every stop Sam watched the driver speak to someone, show them the coin, jerk a thumb toward the bus. She knew he was talking about her but what could she do. She needed a ride.

The long, hot day stretched ahead. Sam laid her head back and shut her eyes as the bus bumped over potholes and stones. Sometime later she felt a hand on her arm and jerked awake. The burly driver told her she’d gone as far as the coin would take her, unless she had another. His suggestive look made her nervous. She shook her head. A moment later she was back on the road in a small peasant town and the bus was driving away.

Samantha started walking.

“It’s been several days, Daniel. No contact with anyone—there or here. What could she be doing?”

He’d asked himself the same question a thousand times over and found no answer. It was pointless trying to fool Shelby that everything was all right. He couldn’t even fool himself. “I don’t know.”

“There’s a lot of unrest in Lima at the moment. Do you think we should send someone, maybe Callie Merton? Just in case Sam needs help.”

“Callie’s off on sick leave. She won’t be back for several months.” Privately, Daniel wasn’t so sure Callie would ever be back. But that wasn’t the point. If anyone went, it would be Daniel. He’d been the one to order Sam there; he’d be the one to bring her back. Alive, his brain screamed.

If I reported in every half hour, would that prove I know what I’m doing, Daniel? Is that what you make the other agents do, or is it only me? Because you don’t trust me?

“If she’s onto something I don’t want to blow her cover too early.” Or let her think I don’t trust her. “Let’s just wait a bit longer.”

He stopped speaking when his secretary entered the office carrying a brown battered package addressed to him, marked personal and confidential. He raised one eyebrow, noted that security hadn’t opened the tiny box.

“It’s been scanned. Security says it’s okay.” Evelyn was good at reading his mind. “Can’t read the postmark, but the initials are clear.”

“From?” Shelby moved nearer.

“Samantha Henderson.”

Daniel ripped it open. Inside he found a wad of newspaper and a small bag of coffee beans. He poured them onto his desk and stared.

“What is that?” Shelby stepped forward. “Daniel? Don’t you have—”

“Yes.” He lifted up a small golden coin, turned on a light and began to examine it under a magnifying glass. Using his fingernail, he scraped away a layer of sedimentary remains covering the gold. Identical.

“Is there a note?” Shelby rifled through the box and paper but found nothing. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means that Sam’s on the trail of something.” Daniel rose, holding the coin between his fingertips. “I’m not doing anything until tomorrow. If I don’t hear from her at the appointed time, then we’ll act.”

Shelby left, grumbling about stubbornness. Daniel placed the coin under his microscope and studied it, compared it with the one he wore. He analyzed the two for a long time, barely noticed when his secretary left, when the whole floor went dark. Finally he leaned back, closed his eyes and whispered.

“Come on, Sam. Phone me!”

Daniel sat on, waited until security did their eleven-o’clock rounds, while the clock in the hall chimed midnight, still waited when the one-thirty red-eye to Seattle roared overhead.

He’d just closed his eyes to rest them when the phone rang.

He grabbed it, held it to his ear. “Sam?”

“Daniel?” The static covered most of her voice. “…coin. Something…wrong. No statue just…. Think—”

“Think what? Sam, are you in trouble?” A pause made the hairs on his arm rise. Why didn’t she answer? “Do you need help?”

Static. Then one word penetrated.

“Yes.”

“I sent her there, Shelby. I’ll be the one who goes to find her.”

“I thought you said Samantha was capable, that she knew her job.”

“She does. But anyone can run into trouble.” Daniel shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, Shel.”

“Oh, what’s that?” She sat watching him toss things into his briefcase.

“That I feel guilty or something for denying her that promotion. But you’re wrong. This isn’t personal.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Okay.” He stopped fiddling and looked her straight in the eye. “We went out once. I thought it might go further but she didn’t want that. Fine. But that had nothing to do with my decision not to promote her. There wasn’t anything between us. Nothing serious.”

She had that knowing look on her face. Daniel ignored it.

“We argued right before she left.” It was more than an argument and he knew it. He bit his lip, admitted what Shelby already knew. “She’s the only person around here who can make me say things I shouldn’t. I let her go without straightening things out. I should have told her she merits promotion. It’s just that I felt she needed more experience. Now she needs help and—”

“Daniel?”

“Yes?” He glanced up.

“Go.”

“You really think—”

“You think—that’s what is important here. Go to Peru or wherever she is. Find her.” She rose, grinning. “You even have my blessing if that’s what you want. Now what are you waiting for?”

“Nothing.” He snapped the lid closed, swung the briefcase to his side and stepped around the desk. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Let me know if you need help and I’ll send someone down. I’d prefer Callie, but—” She shrugged. “I’ll find someone else if you need them.”

He leaned over, hugged her and brushed a kiss against her cheek.

“My dear Shelby, did I ever tell you that the thing I like most about you is that you don’t ask questions?”

She sniffed. “Not when I already know the answers. Be safe, Daniel.”

He nodded and left, almost racing to the elevator. At the last moment before the doors closed, his secretary shoved a paper at him. Boarding at two in the afternoon. It was going to be tight, but he would be on that plane.

And he was.

As he pulled out his laptop and began to study the files he’d downloaded, Daniel was grateful he had the extra room first class provided. He began with the Finders file on the statue. Inca period. Held by a private collector for many years, the owner had a valuation certificate. He’d willed the statue to a museum in Brazil. Two emissaries from a delivery service had picked it up for transport, but the statue had been stolen while in their possession. Finders job was to find the statue and get it to the museum.

The authenticity of that valuation certificate was still unverified and Tim’s notes indicated he had questions regarding the theft. He used the onboard phone to call Shelby to see if there was any news.

“There was a message from Sam on the service telling you where to stay. She’ll contact you.”

He plugged the location into his laptop, grimaced at the hotel description. “This place looks pretty grungy. Couldn’t Finders, Inc. spring for something a little more upscale?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be noticed. You’re too pampered, sitting in that office, rich boy.”

Daniel detested being reminded of his father’s wealth, money that was now his even if it was safely locked away in some bank gathering interest, and Shelby knew it. One of the reasons he stayed at Finders was that few people there knew or cared how much he was worth. They saw him as an ordinary guy, one of them. Well, everyone but Sam.

“Touché. I’m being a snob. I’ll rough it.” He looked at his notes. “Ask Tim to take another look at the pictures of the statue, will you?”

“Sure, but I should tell you he’s more focused on the theft.”

“Why?”

“He believes an art thief would have gone about things with more finesse. He’s got someone checking with the police about it. I’ll let you know.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCullough.” The attendant motioned to the tray and the phone. “We’ll be landing in Lima in fifteen minutes. Please shut down your computer and end your call.”

“Certainly.” He nodded. “We’re landing soon, Shel. I have to go.”

“I’ll keep digging. You find Sam.”

“Count on it.”

Daniel rubbed his fingers over the golden disk Samantha had sent. By the time he stepped onto Peruvian soil, the hairs on his neck were upright—never a good sign.

Evelyn had ordered a car to take him to the hotel. In his room, Daniel flopped across the bed to think. Like some people assembled a puzzle, his brain began to sort bits of information, trying to create order from chaos.

One problem ate at him. If the statue had been stolen for an art collector, why was it still floating around? The answer wasn’t one he liked and once more warning signals went off.

Daniel sincerely hoped his instincts were wrong this time. Otherwise Sam was in deeper trouble than she knew.