Ten miles south of Maricao
Carlos Harris’s breath rasped as he stared at the building’s side entrance across the muddy courtyard. The door stood halfway open, a taunt. Or an invitation.
Carlos had scraped his arm raw sliding down from the low-hanging branches of the flowering Maricao tree where he’d camouflaged himself for the past hour, but pain was the least of his problems. Twenty-five yards from him, a stocky U.S. Army soldier patrolled the compound’s gate with an M-16. A shadow hid Carlos from the guard, but for how long?
Fear stole the oxygen from...