"He was shot and severely injured, but he wasn't killed outright."

"Are you saying he's still alive?"

"I'm saying I don't know for sure. There were reports for a while about surgeries and hospital vigils. Then the election went on without him, and eventually he was no longer in the news."

Quinn leaned back in his chair. "Peter's notation in the file. The complication." Another thought clicked in his mind. "Curson. He would have been the shooter."

"Right. And since this was probably pretty high-profile, not fulfilling his mission wouldn't have gone down well."

"That's why he was blackballed. Has to be. And that's what Peter was noting. The screwup." He glanced over at her again. "No follow-ups with Romero? No 'victim goes home to die' or 'miraculous recovery'?"

"Nothing. Zero. No reports at all."

"Come on. Someone had to be keeping tabs on him."

"Maybe, but it's a small country, remember? While the international press shined its light in the island's direction for a little while after the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, as soon as a bigger story came along somewhere else, they were gone."

"What about the local press?"

"State controlled. Not all democracies are created equal."

"What about the Office? If they failed the first time, Peter must have sent a second team in."

"I checked the file. Though it doesn't say anything about Romero surviving, there's a notation on one of the log sheets of a second team being put together after the date of the initial job. But the mission was apparently cancelled before the team could leave."

"By who?"

"Client."

"My guess is that if Romero didn't die, he was messed up enough that the committee that ordered his. .h.i.t lost the taste for blood."

That must have p.i.s.sed Peter off, Quinn thought. But as annoying as it might have been, Peter would have been hesitant to counter the people who had paid him.

So, Romero alive. An extremely ego-driven politician with designs on ruling for life permanently derailed. It sounded like more than enough motive for revenge.

"Here's another little tidbit for you," Orlando said. "David Harris is a former freelance soldier who did a lot of mercenary work in Africa and South America. Not always on the side our government would like."

"He's politically motivated?"

She shook her head. "The person I heard from said he never gave a d.a.m.n what someone believed. If the paycheck was big enough, that's all that mattered. Said that as he got older, he branched out a bit, and eventually hooked up with Romero through some of Chavez's contacts."

"So, is Harris working for Romero to honor Romero's memory?" Quinn asked.

"I don't think this guy would honor anyone's memory but his own."

"Romero's alive, then."

"That would be my guess."

"Any leads on Harris's location?"

"Nothing yet, but if we find one, I have a feeling we'll find the other."

Quinn nodded. It was exactly what he was thinking.

__________.

THEY LANDED AT St. Renard International Airport, Isla de Cervantes's main entry point just outside the capital city of Cordoba, at three a.m.

After their conversation at the start of the flight, Orlando had taken a nap while Quinn sat silently, his eyes closed, but his mind unable to shut down. Romero, with the apparent help of Harris, had been having the members of the OAS committee who'd sentenced him to death killed, but the members of the ops team-at least in Nate's and Peter's cases-they'd kidnapped. Why the difference?

He considered the possibility that each was taken to someplace quiet where a bullet was put in their skull, but that didn't make sense. Peter was removed from his home, where he'd apparently been in bed. Why waste time dragging him out of the building, and possibly exposing themselves, instead of terminating him on the spot?

Of course. Romero wanted to be present as each member of the ops team was put to death. It was the only theory that rang true, and it also lent more credence to Quinn and Orlando's belief the man was still alive.

What about Nate? Now that he'd most likely been taken to Romero, were they already too late to save him?

As soon as the question entered his mind, he pushed it away. What-ifs like that could derail them. He needed to stay focused. They would find Nate.

They'd find him alive.

To do that, though, they needed to find Romero and Harris. And to find someone, you started at their last known location. Romero's public trail had gone cold a little more than three years earlier, at the Isla de Cervantes hospital where he was treated for his wounds.

That's where they would start.

As the plane taxied from the runway to the area reserved for private aircraft, Quinn got out of his seat and turned so he could talk to everyone at once.

"We need to track Romero down fast."

"If he's still alive," Daeng said.

"He is," Quinn said. "I'm sure of it."

"How do we find him?" Liz asked.

Quinn looked at his sister. "Orlando and I are going to pay a visit to the hospital where he was last treated, and see what we can turn up. You're going to stay here with Daeng."

Liz didn't look happy. Before she could argue the point, Orlando said, "He's right, Liz. We need to keep a low profile. The more people, the more chance we'll be discovered."

"I can wait in the car," Liz said.

"True," Quinn said. "But what will you say when a security guard comes out and asks what you're doing? It's the middle of the night. People don't just sit in their cars."

She looked at her brother, her fear for Nate written on her face, but then she nodded. "You're right. Sorry, I...just..."

Quinn reached over and touched her hand. "We're going to find him. Don't worry."

Liz tried to smile, but failed. "I know."

Two Customs and Immigration officials met them in the parking area and processed their doc.u.ments. Once that was done, Daeng and Liz headed back into the plane with the two pilots, while Quinn and Orlando hitched a ride with the C&I guys back to the main terminal.

On the road, in front of the pa.s.senger arrival area, were two taxis, both drivers asleep in their seats. Quinn and Orlando woke the man in the first cab as they climbed in, and had him take them to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital, where Romero had been treated.

By American standards, the place was small for being the main medical facility in the biggest city in the country. Of course, size was relative. Cordoba only had thirty-five thousand residents, while the island as a whole boasted somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred and seven thousand. When viewed that way, the two-story structure that wasn't much larger than a grocery store back home was undoubtedly more than adequate for the people it served.

They had the cabbie drop them off at the entrance to the parking lot, then took a quick, wide walk around the entire place.

"CCTV," Orlando said, pointing out the closed-circuit security cameras as she spotted them.

Using the camera function on his phone, Quinn zoomed in to get a better look. "Reycons. Y23s," he said, citing the make and model.

They were decent enough, but not top of the line. Using his knowledge of their specs, he picked out a blind spot that would get them right up to the hospital next to a nondescript side door without being seen.

They walked across a parking area, not deviating from the path, and reached the side of the building without incident. By the look of things, the door was used by hospital personnel in search of a smoke break. b.u.t.ts littered the ground, and the aroma of stale tobacco and smoke lingered in the air.

Before leaving the plane, Quinn and Orlando had equipped themselves with some of the items Veronique had loaded onto the aircraft at their request. Quinn removed a set of lock picks from his pocket, and seconds later had the door unlocked.

Orlando ran a handheld scanner along the door, checking for an alarm. It vibrated once near the top. She hit a few b.u.t.tons, put the scanner back over the spot, and held it there until the vibration stopped. Once she gave Quinn a nod, he opened the door.

The hallway they entered was well lit and deserted.

"That one," Orlando whispered, pointing at a door just ahead on the right.

From the name plaque mounted on it, it was clear that on the other side they'd find an office. And where there was an office, there would be a computer.

Quinn picked the lock and then shut the door after they were both inside. The room was cramped but neat-books on shelves on both sides, and a desk in the middle with the hoped-for workstation.

While Orlando delved into the hospital's network, Quinn perused the books. They were mostly medical text, a mix of Spanish and English. There were also several binders specific to the hospital-guidelines, standard procedures, employee handbook, and a facility directory.

After several minutes, Orlando sat back, her eyes still focused on the screen. "I need to get to another computer. This one's blocked."

"If this one's blocked, won't they all be?"

She paused. "I should be able to get around it in IT."

Getting them into an empty office in the middle of the night was one thing. Sneaking into the hospital's main computer room was something else entirely. While there wouldn't be a full staff on duty at this time, someone would be around in case any problems came up.

Quinn s.n.a.t.c.hed the facility directory off the bookshelf. Inside was a map, followed by pages listing names and extension numbers by department. He first located the computer room. It was on the same floor, but clear on the other side of the building. He pulled the map out of the binder, and found the page with the extensions for the IT department and one listing all hospital department heads. He removed them also.

"Here," he said, showing her the map. "This is where you want to be." He gave her a moment to memorize it. "What's the extension here?"

She looked at the phone. "425."

"I'll scope it out and clear the way, then call you."

He turned for the door.

"Hey," she said, stopping him.

He looked back as she stood up and came around the desk.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said. She pulled his head down and kissed him.

When she finally backed away, he said, "We haven't been doing enough of that lately."

"You're telling me." She gave him a playful smirk. "Now go do your job. I'll give you another one when we get out of here."

"Always nice to have a little motivation."

CHAPTER 44.

IT WAS EVEN worse than Nate thought.

As he set out from the fort, he hoped to find a small village or, at the very least, some facility that might have a means for him to get a message out. But the journey to the far side of the island took only forty minutes, and in that time, the only man-made thing he came across was an empty blacktopped landing strip.

He circled around the beach, thinking there might be a fishing hut or a dock, but it was clear that with the exception of the fort, the island was deserted.

What made it even more frustrating was the glow on the horizon. It was too big to be a ship, so it must have been from a city, meaning there was another island-a bigger one-out there.

Nate stared across the water. It couldn't have been more than twenty or thirty miles away. But since he had no way to get there, it might as well have been a thousand.

He allowed himself a moment to sit and rest. Calling for help was apparently not an option. Neither was escaping the island. As soon as the other prisoners were roused from their cells and it was discovered he was gone, Harris's men would come looking for him. There wasn't far he could go, after all.

He knew he had only one course of action open to him. Do whatever he could to save the others. There was a good chance he'd be killed in the process, but he couldn't just hide away while they were being tortured to death.

He pushed himself to his feet and turned back to the jungle.

First order of business: Get a better idea of the fort's layout, and try to gauge how many soldiers Harris and the old man commanded.

After that...

Well, one step at a time.

CHAPTER 45.