Devil's Gold (3 page)

Closing his eyes, Jake allowed the crashing waves and cries of the sea birds to lull him into a semi-trance. The ocean smelled offish and brine that pulled him back through time with the ebb and flow of the tide. Memories of his sun-drenched youth collided with those of his intense Special Forces training, leaving behind an odd emotion of satisfaction and regret. Water. Time. It all boiled together as the sun beat upon his face.

It took Jake a few seconds to distinguish the high-pitched peal of his cellular from the raucous noise of the tropics. Sighing, he shifted in the hammock and retrieved a thin-lined silver phone. He pushed a lock of black hair off his forehead and listened to the voice on the other end. Jake rocked himself out of the rope bed, jumping to his feet in one graceful motion honed from years of tactical training. “You are the man, Walter! I'll be there before the beer warms.”

Whistling a Willie Nelson tune, he pulled an olive green T-shirt over his head and tucked it into the waistband of his khaki shorts. Jake gathered the rest of his belongings—flip-flops, sunglasses, sunblock, and an empty water bottle—then jogged toward a black and white striped pickup truck parked beyond the sandy beach.

Opening the truck door, he smacked the palm of his hand against the faded ZEBRA logo emblazoned upon its door. A bright colored globe with a black slashed “Z” across the top symbolized an organization Jake was damn proud to be a part of. He climbed behind the wheel and sped onto the narrow road, climbing upward toward the highest level of the small, tropical island.

A cluster of metal buildings framed by heavy canvas tents came into view. A kaleidoscope of personnel dressed in an assortment of clothing, from lab coats to hiking gear, moved around the camp, intent on their individual assignments. Reaching a rectangular building with the ZEBRA logo painted against the rusty brown backdrop of its corrugated tin sides, Jake slammed the brake on and shot out of the truck.

He waved absently at a few men gathered to the left of the cantina. They appeared relaxed and comfortable, but Jake's expert eye spotted their concealed weapons and wary eye. He nodded his approval and ran into the metal building before him. Jake halted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the interior. This was his inner sanctum—a state-of-the-art laboratory designed in Atlanta and flown piece by piece to West Africa.

A small man wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses greeted Jake by handing over an ice-cold beer and clapping his hand on Jake's back. “Thanks for coming so quick.”

Jake slugged back half the bottle and wiped his mouth in appreciation. “Whatcha got, Walt?”

His lab assistant pulled him toward the center of the room where a large computer screen dominated a narrow metal conference table. “That orchid you brought back the other day?”

Jake ran a finger along a pencil sketch of the flower that rested on top of a pile of papers. “This one?”

“Yeah.” Walter sat down before the computer screen and typed in several commands.

Jake sat beside him, stretching his legs out and propping them on the table. He pulled another yeasty mouthful of beer from the bottle and sighed in appreciation as the cool liquid slid down his throat. “What about it?”

Walter raised his eyebrows and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of this nose. “It's not listed.” His hair and mustache were painted with silver, and there was no mistaking the intelligence sparkling in the lab assistant's eyes.

Jake placed his beer on the tabletop and grinned. “Yeah, I guessed that by your call.” He dropped his feet to the ground and leaned forward to study the computer screen.

Walter turned the monitor in his direction and pointed at a small grid displaying a list of numbers and a colored twisted helix. “See? The genetics don't match anything in the database.”

Jake studied the computer-generated DNA, then pushed back from the table and stood up. He walked toward a small refrigerator in the back of the room and retrieved two more beers. Returning to the table, he handed one to Walter and flipped the cap off his own. “Where does that put us on the board?”

“One up on Dan.”

Resting his hip on the edge of the table, Jake laughed and knocked his bottle against Walter's. “Where is our man from Down Under these days?”

Walter slid his fingers across the keyboard once more. “In Spain. Donana National Park.”

Jake nodded, remembering the national disaster several years ago caused by a large toxic spill. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby garbage can.

A wave of heat emanated from the front of the lab as the door swung open, signaling the arrival of another body. Jake and Walter both turned to face the entranceway. Jake stood and returned the salute of a young soldier. “At ease,” he said.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.”

Jake ambled toward him, stretching the kinks out of his neck. “Is it time?”

The soldier met him halfway and handed him an eight-by-ten black and white photograph. “Yes, Captain.”

Jake studied the picture and even through the grains and slight fuzziness, the beauty of the woman stole his breath. She knelt beside a riverbed, a thick braid of hair falling across her shoulder. It wasn't the curve of breast or graceful arc of arm that drew his attention so much as the intense gaze into the camera lens. Jake knew she was unaware of the photographer, but something primal and intuitive drew her sight in the camera's direction.

He whistled through his teeth. “Nice piece of sugar.”

The soldier glanced at him. “Sorry to contradict, Captain. But she ain't sweet. She's the reason we're here.”

Jake's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “This is the zoologist?”

“Yes, sir.”

He exhaled and whistled again, this time in exasperation. “Kinda young to have New World Petroleum by the balls, don't you think?” The soldier paused before speaking. Jake moved his head to indicate the man had his permission to continue.

“She's causin' a ruckus all right.”

Flipping the photograph over, Jake studied the printed type on the back of the picture. He ran a thumb along the stubble of his early evening beard. “Dr. Cassidy Lowell.” Glancing up and chuckling, he handed the picture back to the soldier. “Let's go rescue Dr. Doolittle before she creates a worldwide incident.”

C
ASSIDY CLOSED HER EYES AND ALLOWED HER BODY TO SWAY
to the rhythmic movement of the small speedboat. She inhaled the briny scent of the sea; it poured into her senses as dread invaded every pore. She'd been yanked from her assignment. The disappointment on Drew Sharpe's face played over and over again. It was haunting. Debilitating.

Failure.

No. Not a failure. Cassidy opened her eyes, straightened her shoulders and faced the fast approaching cluster of barges. She was right. It didn't matter that Dr. Sharpe didn't agree. He wasn't here. He didn't see. But her photography and videos would explain what words couldn't. Whether she remained or worked the angle stateside, this was an ecological crime that required a resolution.

She raised her hand and shielded her eyes against the brilliant sunshine. “Red, would you run me by that last rig over there?”

The old black man nodded and turned the wheel of the small speedboat in the direction of one of New World Petroleum's oil rigs. After leaving NWP's headquarters, she'd decided to investigate several of their installations. The boat slapped against the choppy waves, kicking up a salty spray that cooled her skin.

“This rig's attached to the gas lines,” Red explained to her.

They approached the rectangular shaped rig, its sides bleeding with rust. Cassidy's eyes scanned the tall, thin round chimney that blasted poisonous gases thirty feet into the air. It burned bright and steady. “Is that so?”

“Yes'm.” Red tossed a weathered rope to one of the workers, and together they secured the speedboat against a narrow floating dock. Cassidy accepted Red's helping hand and disembarked. “I'll stick with you, Doc. These types don' always take to strangers.”

Cassidy winked at the man, grinning as his wrinkled face transformed into a thing of beauty when he beamed a large smile in her direction. “Thanks, Red.”

Together they climbed rusted metal stairs that clung to the side of the ship. The noise of the rig was deafening as machinery slammed against each other and engines screeched with the strain of forcing a foreign object through the earth's crust. Topping the edge of the main deck, Cassidy paused and waited for Red to catch up with her.

She inhaled sharply as a gorilla-sized man approached. He wore the dark green shirt of a New World Petroleum foreman, tree trunk arms swaying forward with each step he took. Cassidy placed a congenial expression upon her face and straightened her shoulders. The man didn't scare her. Much.

He turned his gaze toward Red and nodded in recognition. “What's ZEBRA want here?”

Red tilted his head and pointed toward the gas exhaust. “Cole's given her access to the rigs to measure air quality.”

Cassidy bent her head to hide a smile.
Given
was an overstatement. Cole'd about had an epileptic fit at her request. But he'd acquiesced in the end, rushing her off the ship because of some unscheduled appointment he'd been informed of by his head of security, Nick Fowler. Cassidy shivered at the mere thought of Fowler. The guy gave her the creeps.

Focusing her attention on the foreman, Cassidy reached out her hand and introduced herself. “I'm Dr. Lowell. I appreciate your cooperation, Mr…”

“Smithy.” The man's eyes heated slightly as she moved past him. Cassidy narrowed her own gaze, silently warning him against any inappropriate behavior.

“Tell me, Smithy,” she said, pointing at that gas flare, “why is that still burning nonstop when you're hooked up to the new gas lines?”

“We ain't hooked yet.”

Cassidy flipped open her notebook and scanned the reports handed to her by New World Petroleum. “It says right here that you are.” She tapped her finger against the memorandum from Cole.

Smithy glanced at the sheet of paper; then his neck disappeared as he heaved his shoulders upward. “Ain't never seen that. We're a portable unit, smaller than all the other rigs 'round here. Far as I know, this baby's going upriver in a month or so. They didn't want to waste time connecting to the lines. Guess some other jerk'll take this spot and siphon the methane.”

Cassidy stared at him, taken aback by that knowledge. “What's upriver?”

The oaf shrugged beefy shoulders. “Dunno. I ain't no informational computer.”

Snapping her notebook shut, she scribbled on the cover and turned away from the foreman. “Red, let's go. There's nothing more for me here.”

Red appeared startled, his forward motion coming to an awkward stop. “You don' wanna measure the air?”

Cassidy bit her bottom lip and lifted her head to glare at the burning gas. “Nah. I know what I'll find.” What she wanted to know is why the hell NWP was hauling an established rig upriver. “Let's get off this piece of floating poison.” She turned and headed back to the stairs but not before she caught a glimpse of the foreman speaking into his walkie-talkie. Cole, no doubt, was the voice on the other end.

Cassidy stretched her fingertips toward the sky, pulling on the knots and bunched muscles caused by too much worry and not enough sleep. Red navigated the speedboat up the mouth of the Niger River. Glancing to the right, the coastline of Port Harcourt drew her attention. Mammoth gray hulls of recently emptied oil carriers dotted the harbor. Without the weight of their liquid gold, the oxidized bases rose high above the waves, an ugly testament to pollution. The boat swung to the left and headed deeper into the Niger River. Cassidy clung to the railing, bracing her body against the impact of boat on wave as the coastal city faded from view.

Several wet drops hit her skin, and she glanced upward. It was the rainy season, and the weather slipped constantly from clear skies to walls of water. Yanking a yellow slicker from her canvas bag, Cassidy tugged it on and prepared for the drenching she knew lay seconds away.

Several small fishing boats dotted the river. Men in bright colored shirts flung nets into the water. Toss and drag, toss and drag. Their movements graceful with the rhythm of repetive motion. Cassidy tilted her head and smiled as the men's voices rang loud and clear, good naturedly taunting one another.

Red slowed their progress so as not to send unwanted currents in the fishermen's direction. The boat tipped to the right, and she trailed her fingers along the crests of the waves, its biting water reminding her that the simplicity of the scene she witnessed lay in the vision and not the task. These men were battling for survival, not enjoying a pleasure cruise.

A flat-bottomed boat full of heavily armed soldiers shot from the shore and cut toward the fishermen. Red slipped behind the militia and jammed the throttle forward. “We don' wanna mix with dem,” he called back as the wind picked up with the speed of the boat and tore his voice into a whisper.