painted turquoise.” She patted the white bulkhead of the survey boat.
“A rental from a local engineering firm,” Pitt said. “Lucky for us, they didn’t skimp on the outboard motors.”
He looked over the rail at some mud-encased tires along the exposed shoreline. “What did you say you and the boy were doing out on the water?”
“I’m here as part of a scientific team assisting local farmers with their agricultural yields. Besides helping with crop rotation, irrigation, and fertilization techniques, we’re introducing new crop strains that might be more productive. Our team has been assisting farmers throughout El Salvador and Guatemala.”
She pointed to some distant cornfields. “The output in some of the villages has more than doubled in just three years.”
“Sounds like a worthy endeavor,” Pitt said. “But I’m not sure I see how that’s a reason to sail in front of a collapsing dam.”
“In the past months there’ve been unexplained child fatalities in the area. Rondi said some of the villages draw drinking water from the reservoir, so I thought I’d collect samples.” She patted the soaked leather satchel that still hung from her neck.
Giordino looked over his shoulder from the wheelhouse. “Where would you like to be dropped off?”
“As close to that windmill as you can get.” Rondi pointed to the western shore.
Giordino turned the boat, slowing as the depths shallowed. When he could see the bottom, he cut power and raised the propellers, letting the boat drift until its hull scraped. “Close as I can get. Watch out for quicksand.”
Elise, Rondi, and the fisherman offered thanks once more, then climbed over the side and waded toward shore. Elise took a moment to stop at the water’s edge and wave at the NUMA boat, then joined the others hiking across nearly fifty yards of mudflats and sand.
Pitt and Giordino watched until the trio was safely ashore. Elise and Rondi turned south, while the old fisherman hiked north. “Call it a day?” Giordino nodded toward the sun that was tickling the horizon.
“Sure,” Pitt said. “We may be in for a muddy hike of our own back at the dock.”
He slipped over the side and shoved the boat toward deeper water as Giordino lowered the props and eased on the motors. Once Pitt was aboard and they’d cleared the shallows, Giordino applied full throttle. But soon Pitt tapped him on the arm.
“Cut the motors!” Pitt shouted.
Giordino instantly obliged. The high-riding boat sagged to the flat surface as the motors fell quiet. He turned to ask Pitt why, then saw for himself.
Where they’d dropped Elise and the others was aglow with flames and rising black smoke. The sound of gunfire echoed across the lake.
Someone was attacking the U.S. aid camp.
4
Elise and Rondi had been onshore just long enough to stomp the mud off their feet when a loud explosion shook the ground. Past an adjacent cornfield, a cloud of black smoke mushroomed into the air.
“It’s from the camp,” Elise said. “Hurry!”
She sprinted down a path, Rondi following close behind. But her strength quickly ebbed, and she was winded by the time they reached the field’s far edge. The sight of the camp just beyond made her stop in her tracks.
The palm-thatched awning around the camp, or what remained of it, was billowing with flames. Beneath it, the benches and workstations had turned into a black, smoldering mass. The nearby tents had mostly disintegrated.
Phil staggered from behind the ring of tents, his clothes singed. Specks of blood peppered his face where he’d been hit by debris from the explosion. He didn’t notice Elise, instead raising his hands to someone across the camp to halt.
Two people stood on the opposite side of the crater left by the explosion, facing him. They weren’t part of the aid team, nor were they villagers. Each wore dark clothes, with low-slung ball caps and sunglasses concealing their faces. It wasn’t their attire that caught Elise’s eye. It was the assault rifle each carried, balanced on the hip with the barrel thrust forward.
One of the weapons spit fire, and a bloody seam appeared on Phil’s chest. The scientist staggered backward, tripped over a tent stake, and fell to the ground, where he lay motionless.
“Phil!” Elise tried to take a step toward his body. Something stopped her. It was Rondi, grabbing her arm and pulling her in the opposite direction.
“Run, Miss Elise, run!” The teen yanked, then shoved her toward the cornfield.
In a daze, Elise yielded to his urgings, turning and streaking toward the field. From the corner of her eye,