Against the Wind (2 page)

The Greater Hollywood Help Network had seen their grants administrator leave with something akin to panic. It took all of Maddy’s considerable administrative skills to keep the small social service agency going, and all her creativity and perseverance to keep the grant money flowing in and right back out again. The money would continue moving while she was gone, but only in one direction—into the hungry bellies of the street people of Hollywood, the Armenian immigrants, and the hordes of San Pablan refugees who made their way into the country under cover of the night. And if Maddy didn’t retrieve her father, bring him back to the country he’d abandoned years ago and return to the interminable grants writing, those hungry bellies would get even hungrier.

A week, she’d figured she’d be gone, ten days tops. She had clear directions on how to get to the mountain stronghold of the Saint of San Pablo, and even with her knowledge of Spanish limited to a couple of years at boarding school and a slick tourist phrase book, she had little doubt as to her ability to get the job done. She’d always had great pride in her own efficiency.

But that efficiency hadn’t come face to face with a revolution until today. The almost empty plane she’d taken had been twelve hours late arriving in the capital city of La Mensa. It had detoured first to Honduras, then back to Mexico City, and then had finally been allowed to land in San Pablo after they’d cleared the debris of a bombed-out helicopter from the pitted runway. That hair-raising landing, bouncing and jouncing past the
twisted wreckage of untold flying machines, had started the demoralization of Maddy Lambert. The government committee that greeted her helped it on its way.

“We are very concerned for your father, Miss Lambert,” General Ortega had assured her. He was very smooth, the general, and very very handsome, with that Latin condescension that was almost reassuring. He was telling her with those dark eyes of his that she was not to worry, he would take care of her, as his small, strong hand held her slim, tanned one. And Maddy had smiled blandly, every nerve alert. General Anastasio Ortega was Minister of Agriculture. Why an agriculture minister would need to be a general in the Gray Shirts was one question, why an agriculture minister would be concerned with the Saint of San Pablo’s daughter was another. Maddy had little doubt he was chosen for his looks and his charm with the ladies, and she was unimpressed.

“We are a very tolerant government, Miss Lambert,” he’d continued smoothly. “As is evident in our allowing your father to continue to enjoy his life in San Pablo, despite his very vocal complaints about our democracy. For many years now we have worried about his involvement with the murdering Patronistas, and we would be much relieved if you did prevail upon him to return to his own country.”

Maddy murmured something noncommittal in response, and the good general continued with his speech, his liquid eyes caressing her tall, narrow body that was on a level with his, his tanned hand with the wide gold wedding band toying idly with the gun that went so well with his gray uniform.

“Any way we may assist you, you have only to let us know. My government will of course provide a limousine and driver and an armed guard. For tonight, however,
the president himself graciously requests the pleasure of your company at a state dinner. And tomorrow I have been given the honor of conducting you on a tour of our improvements in La Mensa, so that when you return to the United States you may assure your government that our commitment to progress and human rights is unassailable.”

Maddy smiled sweetly. “Thank President Morosa for me, General, but tell him I must regretfully decline.”

“But—”

“And thank him for the offer of the car and the escort,” she sailed onward, “but I have made other arrangements. Much as I long to see the improvements in La Mensa, I’m afraid that I cannot afford to wait. I’m already twelve hours behind schedule, and I planned to leave for Puente del Norte by noon today.”

“Miss Lambert, I cannot allow—”

“Allow, General?” She looked at him with an innocent question in her large brown eyes. “I thought my government had made all the arrangements. I have permission to travel on my own to the northern part of the country, to retrieve my father and bring him back to the United States. Is there some way that interferes with the agricultural concerns of San Pablo?”

General Ortega opened his mouth, shut it again, and Maddy could hear the gentle grinding of teeth. “Of course not, Miss Lambert. We only wished to make things easier for you. The Grand Pablan Highway is not at all what you’re used to, and while we have made great strides in law and order, the rebels have been draining our manpower in the north. I cannot guarantee your safety if you insist on going by yourself.”

Maddy smiled. “I don’t expect you to guarantee my safety, General. I consider that to be my responsibility.”

“You are very headstrong, Miss Lambert. I only hope you will not regret your decision. At least wait until tomorrow to leave, and think about our very generous offer.”

“I’m sorry, General. I’m leaving as soon as I can.”

It hadn’t been noon, it had been closer to three o’clock, and she hadn’t made it more than fifty miles when darkness had begun closing around her. For a moment she’d regretted her impulsive action. She’d lied to the so-helpful General Ortega—no arrangements had been made for a vehicle or supplies. Her directions to the tiny mountain town of Puente del Norte were the only thing she relied on. But she had the very strong suspicion that if she showed up at a rebel stronghold in a government limousine with an armed guard she wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms. Her father had been more than vocal about his disapproval of
el presidente
’s repressive regime, he’d been strident. Maddy didn’t owe him much, but he didn’t deserve to have his daughter show up surrounded by his sworn enemies.

Hertz, Avis, and their ilk had long ago abandoned San Pablo. The rusty, venerable Toyota she’d finally located had recently transported chickens and perhaps goats, and the odor, combined with the humid heat, almost sent her back to General Ortega. It would have been simple enough to find him—one of his Gray Shirts had been doing a not very effective job of following her since she’d managed to shake Ortega at the airport.

But the Toyota ran smoothly, if bumpily, enough, and the animal smell of it dissipated as the day wore on.

The road was getting worse, far worse, signaling the proximity of a semblance of civilization. Maddy slowed the Toyota to a crawl, edging along the narrow trail, straddling the ruts. Suddenly she jammed the tiny car
into a quick, jolting stop that rocked the poor tin creature on its frame. A huge branch lay across the narrow road.

Maddy swore under her breath. The car had stalled, and she switched off the ignition, turning to the door handle. And found herself looking directly into the barrel of a very large, very nasty gun.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry, as she stared into the narrow, deadly little barrel. Slowly, carefully she raised her eyes, past a sweat-stained shirt, open to reveal a hairy chest, past a thick neck, stubbled chin, hooked nose, directly into the eyes of a very fierce young man. Those eyes were a cold, merciless brown; like a lizard’s, they stared at her unwinking. Maddy could see the shadow of others behind him, but she didn’t dare move her gaze from his, certain that if she did that lethal-looking gun would explode in her face. She swallowed again, wetting her lips, and tried to summon the distant trace of a smile. She could imagine the ghastly parody that issued forth.

A string of rapid, incomprehensibly idiomatic Spanish issued forth from that grim mouth, directed at Maddy, and there was little doubt that the speech contained both questions and orders.

“No comprendo,”
Maddy managed, which wasn’t strictly true. You couldn’t live in Southern California, couldn’t spend the last five years working there without picking up a small amount of Spanish. She’d managed to
understand about every fifth word Lizard Eyes had directed at her. Unfortunately they were mostly pronouns.

The man grimaced and spat, the gun never wavering in its attention on her forehead.
“Gringa,”
he said slowly, furiously, and Maddy noticed with a distant amusement that his voice was high and light, almost like a girl’s. “Who are you and what are you doing here? This province belongs to the Third District of the Patronistas, the Fighters Against the Oppressor—it is not the best area for
turistas
. Why are you here?”

Maddy steeled herself to ignore the gun, a difficult task considering its proximity. She could smell the hot metal, the gun oil, and she wrinkled her nose, trying to ignore the terrifying certainty that the well cared for gun saw frequent use. “My name is Madelyn Lambert. I’m Samuel Lambert’s daughter, and I’ve come to see my father.”

Lizard Eyes stared at her, unblinking, unbelieving. “A
norteamericana,”
he said finally in disgust. “I should have known.” He pulled the gun away, and Maddy breathed a sigh of relief. She noticed that her hands were still clenching the steering wheel, and slowly, deliberately she relaxed her deathgrip.

“The Patronistas have no wish to antagonize the United States or any of its citizens who are foolish enough to enter a war zone without protection.”

“I thought the fighting was in the south.”

Lizard Eyes shrugged. “The fighting is all over San Pablo. There is no place that is untouched.” Those eyes narrowed as they swept over her hot, dusty face. “You do not look like El Patrón.”

“El Patrón?” Maddy echoed, mystified for a moment. “Oh, you mean Samuel. No, I’m supposed to take after my great-grandmother. She was French, and I …” Her voice trailed off as she recognized the inanity of the conversation.
Why in the world would this guerilla warrior want to know about her French grandmother? “Anyway,” she said lamely, “he
is
my father, I assure you.”

Lizard Eyes shrugged. “It is of no importance. One lone
gringa
cannot cause much trouble. You are alone?” Those lizard like eyes swept back into the underbrush from whence the battered little Toyota had come. “I am surprised Ortega didn’t try to stop you.”

Maddy was conscious of a sudden guilty start. “Ortega?”

“Head of
el presidente’s
Secret Interrogation Squad for the Subjugation of Insurgents.”

“I thought he was Minister of Agriculture,” Maddy said, and then could have taken the gun out of his hand and shot herself for her stupidity.

Those lizardlike eyes narrowed and a sudden, alarmingly affable smile split his darkly tanned face. It was then that Maddy realized how very young her fierce young soldier was—probably no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. And all the more deadly because of his extreme youth. “General Ortega is a friend of yours, eh? And I suppose he’s accompanied you, at a safe distance.”

“He—he met me at the airport,” Maddy stammered, flustered. “He offered me a car and driver but I told him no.”

“Doubtless you promised to let him know once you safely arrived,” Lizard Eyes offered smoothly.

“He knows how to get here on his own, I have no doubt. He doesn’t need my help.”

Her captor shrugged. “Who is to say? General Ortega has a reputation for making the most of his opportunities. He also has a reputation for the ladies.” The sweep of those cold brown eyes was insultingly direct. “Well,
gringa
, you are not my problem. Whether El Patrón is
your father or not is none of my concern. Though he has never once mentioned a family back in the United States. But it will be up to Murphy to decide what to do with you.”

The name crackled along Maddy’s nerve endings like static electricity, and it was all she could do to remain passive in the face of Lizard Eyes’s attention. She hadn’t heard his name spoken in years and had almost convinced herself that he had never existed. And suddenly, with the sound of his name, he was alive, and the past fourteen years might never have passed.

“Murphy?” She managed a creditable question in her voice.

“El Patrón’s protector.” Lizard Eyes shot a stream of rapid Spanish over his shoulder to one of his compatriots and was answered with a coarse laugh. “And it is to be wondered what Soledad will think of you.”

“Soledad?”

“Your stepmother. I somehow doubt she will welcome you with open arms.” Lizard Eyes laughed again, unpleasantly, and the gun slowly withdrew several inches and waved her onward.
“Vamanos, gringa
. We will no doubt meet again.”

She sat there, unmoving, her eyes never wavering as he slowly moved back, the gun at a seemingly relaxed angle. She had no doubt it could snap back up to aim at her face once more at an instant’s notice. One of the men accompanying Lizard Eyes was moving the log that had blocked the road, and he called out something to his boss. It was quite clearly something obscene, an area of the Spanish language that had so far eluded Maddy, but she could make out Murphy’s name and the easily identified
gringa.

She sat there a long time after her captors melted into
the jungle, breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking as she turned the key. The gears ground, screaming in pain, the car bucked, and she was off, down the narrow track that would lead her to her father—and to Jake Murphy.

Puente del Norte was a beaten little town, its tumbled-down mansions and overgrown parks attesting to a once more glorious lot in life. The now-familiar poverty was rampant, the fading pink and pastel adobe walls scrawled with graffiti exhorting the benumbed inhabitants to die for freedom. As Maddy limped her battered car into the village she kept her eyes alert for signs of her father’s presence. She could see obvious signs of General Ortega and President Morosa’s recent visits, in the bombed-out church, the shattered walls, the wary looks on the inhabitants’ faces. They were all carrying weapons.

From the sturdy, black-garbed women industriously washing in the stream that ran along the side of the narrow village road, to the swaggering young men dressed in the international uniform of blue jeans and T-shirts and Nikes, they were carrying pistols and handguns and machine guns and shotguns, knives and machetes and even a sword or two. She was driving into an armed camp, and in retrospect General Ortega was looking more and more attractive. If she made it out of there, out of this miserable country alive, she would never again go any farther south than San Diego.