The large blue helicopter cast a streaking shadow over the dense Yucatan jungle below. In the rear compartment, Alistair Drummond’s scowl became so severe that its wrinkles added years, making him look the eighty-something that he was. He’d been sitting rigidly straight, but now, with each piece of information that Raymond told him, Drummond sat even straighter. His brittle voice managed to be forceful despite the whump-whump-whumping roar of the aircraft’s engine. “Brendan Buchanan?”
“An instructor for Army Special Forces, assigned to Fort Bragg. He rented a car in New Orleans and drove to San Antonio to visit the woman’s parents. Our sentry there called to say that Buchanan used the name Jeff Walker when he claimed he was a friend of their daughter and asked if they knew where she was.”
“Is he a friend?” Drummond squinted through his thick glasses. “Why would he use an alias? Obviously, he’s hiding something. But what? What does he want with the woman?”
“We don’t know,” Raymond said. “But the two men assigned to watch the Mendez house are missing now. So is one of the men assigned to the target’s house outside San Antonio. His partner found recent blood beneath a carpet and a bullet hole in the ceiling. It would be foolish not to make the connection between Buchanan’s appearance and their disappearance. If he shows up again, I’ve given orders to have him killed.”
Drummond’s ancient frame trembled. “No. Cancel that order. Find him. Follow him. Maybe he’ll lead us to her. Did they work together at Fort Bragg? Learn his connection with her. He might know places to look that we haven’t imagined.”