His Mysterious Ways

Taglio shot him a look, but whatever was on his mind he kept to himself. “You’re the boss. But just for the record, you never answered my question. How can a person just disappear like that?”

Lassiter shrugged. “I think you answered it yourself. It must have been some kind of optical illusion.”

“Yeah, that must have been it.” But Taglio didn’t sound convinced, and his expression was anxious as his gaze moved past Lassiter to the open doorway and the gathering darkness beyond. “Or else…”

“Or else what?”

Taglio’s gaze lifted and something that might have been fear flickered in his eyes, giving Lassiter a glimpse of vulnerability in the younger man that he suspected few people had ever witnessed. Taglio seemed almost embarrassed by what he had to say. “Maybe she isn’t human.”

Lassiter frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“A ghost, Lassiter. I’m talking about a damned ghost.”

LASSITER TRIED to laugh off Taglio’s supernatural explanation, but he found himself shivering even though the night was warm and humid.

But Tag had it all wrong, Lassiter thought grimly as he climbed into his jeep and headed over to Sector Seven. The woman on the video wasn’t the ghost. Lassiter was. He’d died a long time ago and he had some pretty damning proof that he should have stayed dead. Dead and buried in a watery tomb that now rested on the ocean floor hundreds of feet below the surface.

For a moment, the claustrophobic memories threatened to engulf him, and he could hear the cacophony of clanking metal and human screams slowly making their way to the surface. He shoved them away, buried them deep and kept driving.

He checked the fence along Sector Seven, but the metal hadn’t been cut and the alarms were still set. The woman couldn’t have gotten inside the camp. But just to be on the safe side, Lassiter drove the perimeter of the compound, making sure the guards were at their posts, and then he checked all the buildings.

The mess tent and rec hall were deserted, but he could see Kruger and Martin Grace still at work in the office, heads bent low, their expressions gloomy. They appeared to be arguing, but what compelling business kept them at it for so long, Lassiter had no idea. He didn’t interrupt them this time. He had other things on his mind.

Parking the jeep, he crossed the interior of the compound on foot and checked the infirmary. The place was run by a man named Angus Bond, an Australian expatriate Kruger had dug up from somewhere who claimed to be a doctor. Bond had padlocked the door to keep the more potent drugs from falling into the wrong hands. Or so he said. But it had been Lassiter’s suspicion for quite some time that old Angus wasn’t above a little self-medicating. The padlock was probably more self-serving than precautionary.

Lassiter started to walk away when the sound of breaking glass stopped him short. He turned and put an ear to the door.

Someone was inside.

His first thought was that Angus had returned early from his day off, but Lassiter had seen the Aussie head off to Santa Elena just before lunch, and the good doctor never came back early or sober from a furlough.

Besides, how would Angus get through a door that was padlocked from the outside?

How would anyone get through that door?

A ghost, Lassiter. I’m talking about a damn ghost.

CURSING SOFTLY, Melanie whipped the scarf from her head and quickly wound it around the cut on her wrist.

Damn! She was getting blood everywhere.

And everything had been going so well until that point. She’d made it inside the compound without being detected. Located the infirmary and gotten inside without any problem. The locked medicine cabinet had presented the first real challenge, but she’d solved that by simply smashing out the glass front. No problem, except when she’d reached inside, she’d cut her wrist on a shard.

But even worse, the sound of shattering glass had been like a gunshot in the quiet. Someone might have heard the noise and would soon come to investigate. Melanie knew she had to hurry.

Fighting off a wave of dizziness from the sight of her own blood, she directed her penlight into the cabinet, playing the beam over the vials and bottles of medicine.

Whoa, some heavy-duty stuff there. OxyCotin, Percocet, Demerol. And some good old-fashioned morphine.

Tempting, but not why she’d come there.

Skipping the drugstore heroine, she went straight for the antibiotics, scanning the labels until she found what she needed. Quickly she stuffed the packets of tetracycline into the leather bag she wore draped over her shoulder.

A slight noise, nothing more than a swish of air, sent a chill up her spine, and slowly she turned toward the door.

A man stood just inside, almost hidden by shadows. Even so, Melanie could tell that he was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. His features were indistinguishable, but she knew his gaze was on her. A cold, sharp, penetrating stare that cut her right to the bone.

He was dressed like a soldier. Camouflage jacket and pants. Rugged boots. A rifle barrel jutting over his shoulder, and he carried a handgun that was pointed at her.

She knew at once who he was, and her whole body went slack with fear.

El guerrero del demonio…

“¿HABLA USTED Inglés? Do you speak English?”

The woman didn’t answer, just stood staring at him, unblinking, as if frozen. But Lassiter knew she understood him. Now that he’d gotten a better look at her, he could tell she was American by the way she carried herself, by the clothes she wore, the cut of her blond hair.

“How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.

Still she didn’t answer.

Slowly, she held up her hands as she began to back away from him.

“Stay where you are,” he warned. “Don’t move.”

She continued to back toward the window, and Lassiter guessed her intent. “Stop!”

He rushed her, but she turned quickly, took a step toward the window and…disappeared.

Vanished into thin air.

Without thinking, Lassiter opened fire.

Chapter Two

“Let me see that wrist,” Dr. Wilder commanded as he reached for Melanie’s hand.

She put it behind her. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

His gaze turned reproachful. “Then why have you been hiding it from me all day?”

“I haven’t. We’ve both been busy, that’s all.” Which was true. They’d had a steady stream of patients coming into the clinic for hours with ailments ranging from dementia to dysentery, and Melanie, who had come to the clinic four days ago to volunteer, had been kept so busy she’d barely had a moment to spend with Angel.

But the child’s condition had been steadily improving. Her fever was down, the cough had subsided, and her breathing was finally normal. Both the oxygen and the IV had been removed, and with continued antibiotic therapy, Dr. Wilder was cautiously optimistic for a full recovery.

What would happen to the child once she was well enough to leave the clinic, Melanie didn’t want to contemplate. She’d watched enough cable news back home to know the miserable plight of war orphans in countries like Cartéga.

“Melanie?”