The Guardian gripped the walkie-talkie in one hand while steering the Jeep around a fallen palm tree. The Motorola transceiver was top-of-the-line, not some two-tin-can kid stuff. Very few unofficial personnel had access to vehicles and reliable lines of communication. Those with better equipment—like the radio and the Jeep—would have an edge.
The four-wheel drive jostled over the uneven road that lay in pieces like a jarred puzzle. A catastrophe like this called for special people, with specific skills and equipment to keep others from being victimized. Above all, the children had to be protected. The Guardian considered it a life’s calling to remove babies from inadequate homes and provide them with better futures.
Never had that mission been more important than now.
Red tape meant nothing in the aftermath of the earthquake. Two decades of experience circumventing official channels would come in handy. Guardian troops already trained and in place would carry out orders without hesitation and with ease in the country’s current lawless state. Babies wouldn’t have to languish in an understaffed orphanage in this earthquake-ravaged hell while waiting for rubber-stamped paperwork.
Rows of sheet-covered dead filled a concrete parking lot outside a crumpled grocery store. The smaller forms carried the biggest punch, reminders of another lost child, a little girl whose face was still painfully clear even after so many years of grieving. The past would not repeat itself.
Anyone who interfered with the Guardian would become a casualty of war. Sad, but unavoidable. Nothing else mattered but gathering the children.
Chapter 3
Liam McCabe squinted at the setting sun. They would search into the night, but even with work lights, the operation would be tougher, slower.
The looters would grow bolder.
His eyes shifted to two security cops handcuffing the latest trash pickers. The seventh attempt today, mostly by starving displaced families. They would be escorted to one of the tent camps. The hungrier they got, the more desperate they would become.
They needed more aid—ASAP.
But for now, he would have to content himself with the one fresh set of hands and paws. He charged across the debris, determined to intercept the newest search and rescue dog handler and shout dibs. He’d informed everyone on headset that his mission was top priority, but that wouldn’t keep somebody from trying to scoop her up first.
She was wiry, with a hint of dark hair peeking from beneath her helmet. She seemed too small to stand up under the weight of her gear, but she showed no signs of swaying. Her steel-shanked boots were planted firmly on the uneven ground.
Shouldering past two E3s setting up new stadium lights, Liam thrust his hand toward the woman. “Major McCabe, pararescue out of Florida,” he introduced himself abruptly. “You’re with me. Hope you’re ready to roll.”
“Rachel Flores.” She stroked the neck of her black Labrador retriever. “This is Disco. We’re not newbies. Been at this for over ten years. So give it to me short and sweet.”
“I’ve got men on the pile now. One under the debris. He went in to stabilize a survivor.” He pointed to the German shepherd about fifty yards away having his front paw taped. “The dog there—Zorro, I think they called him—found the scent, but he’s worn out and has an injured paw.”
Her deep brown eyes assessed the scene. “My dog only does live searches. Not cadavers.”
“My guy is not dead.”
She looked back fast, pinning him with a no-bullshit stare. “I’m not trying to get up in your grill, but you need to keep your objectivity. We have limited resources. If I spend hours searching here, then someone else goes unfound. I can’t have you using me for your personal agenda, Major.”
“My guy is not dead,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “And my objectivity is rock solid. He’s down there with a female victim and a male toddler.”
“Okay”—she nodded curtly—“I’m just making it clear. Ready to roll.”
He shifted into work mode, rattling off details and answering her questions as he escorted her to the dig site. Disco trotted alongside, looking like any regular house pet out for a daily walk. Until a person looked closer and realized how finely in tune the canine was to every minute gesture of his handler. How they were both on edge and prepared for anything they might face.
The death they likely would face.
God, he hated missions like this most of all. He’d seen so much death back during his days as an Army Ranger. Once the PJs accepted officers on their teams, he knew without a doubt where he had to be. He’d swapped from army to air force. From hoo-uh to ooh-rah. He wasn’t ready to hang up his uniform, but he’d needed to shift to the saving end of the job before he burned out.
Life by life, he gained back pieces of his sanity. Cause for rejoicing. Except he’d left the wreckage of three divorces behind him. He’d liked being married, having someone to come home to, a soft woman in his life. He fell in love too easily and unwisely.
But here, on the job, he didn’t doubt his instincts for a second. And his gut told him Rachel Flores would find Hugh Franco. She had to.
The alternative was unacceptable.
***
Every bone in Amelia’s body ached as huge hands under her armpits hauled her from the crevice. Loose rocks and stones scraped along her back through her shredded silk blouse, but oh God, finally, she was free.
Lights flooded her cave, a larger space now that the rescue workers had hacked away enough concrete to pull her out. She landed on a canvas stretcher, the IV tube slapping her arm. She twisted to check Joshua—