by Anna Lowe
He let out a slow breath and went over the plan in his mind. He’d checked the lower pool carefully. It was deep and free of jutting rocks. So, yeah, he was…kind of sure.
“We don’t have to do this,” Cara whispered, pulling him back. “It’s not that important…”
The words set something off in him, because suddenly it seemed very important. Critical that he not back out now.
He tightened his fingers around hers and pulled her closer. “We can do this.” It was a whisper, barely above the roar.
Her eyes were huge, her lip trembling.
“We can do this,” he repeated, more to himself than to her.
One of the guides made a protesting sound behind him, and though Tobin didn’t speak the language, he knew just what it meant. Hey, mister, don’t get so close to the edge.
He looked down and gulped. Maybe we don’t have to do this, his gut yelped.
A shout rang out and tore his attention away. A shout in Spanish, not the guttural local language, and he whirled.
He caught a glimpse of jungle camo, the gleam of a gun.
“Oh God,” Cara murmured. “They’re here.”
His heart revved higher, right into the red zone, judging by the squeeze in his chest. The drug runners had caught up with them and were closing in.
“We have to do this,” he said to Cara, turning back to the cliff.
He inched forward until his toes hung over the edge, even though his weight was well back. Cara stepped up beside him, curling and recurling her fingers around his.
“We just have to make sure we jump out far enough,” he murmured.
The guide called again, more anxious now. Hey, gringo! Watch that you and your woman don’t go right over the edge!
The drug runners yelled, too. “Alla! Alla!”
Over there! They’re over there!
Tobin tightened the straps on his backpack and checked the quick release. If it started dragging him under, he could ditch it, but that was Plan B. Or C or D or whatever letter he was up to.
The commotion behind them grew louder. God, he really hated being rushed.
He leaned forward, keeping his weight right at the edge, and struck an even tone for Cara’s sake. “Ready?”
Her answer nearly made him fall off the edge. “I love you, Tobin.”
And somehow, he had an answer to that, even with the guides and drug runners screaming and splashing through the shallows toward them.
“I never stopped loving you, Cara.” He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead. “Ready on three?”
He could hear her sharp inhale even over the rumble of the water. “Ready.”
Just like going over the lip of a double diamond slope on an icy day, he lied to himself. He’d done it a thousand times.
“One.”
An urgent string of syllables came from behind.
“Two.”
Cara’s hand clamped over his and he felt the men edge closer.
“Three!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cara had leaped off the high diving board at the YMCA. She’d even jumped off a rickety old pier on the New Hampshire shore when the tide was out, and that had seemed like a long, long way down. But that was nothing compared to the free fall she was in now.
The rush of falling water thundered in her ears. The spray was everywhere — under, over, around her. In her nose and mouth. She knew it wouldn’t do any good, kicking wildly in the air like a cartoon character trying to get traction, but she did it anyway. But there was no traction, no way to get control. Only Tobin’s hand to cling to and a wild prayer.
In the midst of all the overwhelming sensations threatening to short-circuit her brain, one thought struck her as particularly strange. How funny it was to be looking down on Tobin instead of up. He was ahead of her in the free fall, and a little farther to one side, and if she could have kicked her way over to cling to him, she would have.
The panicked intake of air she’d taken when she jumped didn’t even last partway down, and she was forced to take a slurp of misty air in midjump. Even then she wasn’t sure it would last the rest of the way.
“Shiiiiii—” he started to yell, but his voice cut off, and she made the mistake of taking another breath just as she hit the pool.
Impact was a whole-body punch that rattled every screaming joint in her body. The shock felt like a cold knife in her ribs, and she yelped, dragging in a lungful of water. She coughed and spluttered, trying to get her bearings. Which way was up? Everything was swirling and foaming around her.
She flailed in the dark water, fighting a sucking force that pushed her deeper, deeper. Too deep. Even worse, she’d lost hold of Tobin’s hand. Where was he?
Pressure built behind her ears, along with the terrifying urge to inhale. God, she was drowning. It felt wrong, all wrong, to have survived the impact only to die that way.
She kicked, trying to claw her way up, but the force of the waterfall was keeping her down. Her mind flipped into panic mode. She’d never make it back up. She would drown. She’d—
A dark shape appeared ahead of her — Tobin! He’d help her and everything would be okay, right?
But something was wrong. Tobin wasn’t moving, not fighting the pull. His arms were askew, his body limp.
Her heart wailed. They’d die here together, and for what?
She grabbed the back of his shirt, crying at the flood of pain in her lungs, ready to give up.
Give up?
A burst of heat went through her as she fisted his shirt and gave in to a screaming, stamping, full-out mental fit. No way was she going to give up! Not when everything depended on her. She owed it to Tobin to try.
No. More than try. She’d gotten him into this mess. She’d get him out.
Kicking upward was futile, so she tried kicking to the left. Kicking and scooping water with her free hand, keeping a death grip on him with the other. Tobin wasn’t moving, either stunned by the impact or worse, knocked out. Her lungs wailed and her right arm twisted with Tobin’s weight, but there was no way she would let go. Not now. Not ever.
She made a tiny bit of headway, but it was too slow. Her vision dimmed and went blurry around the edges.
Survival instinct screamed at her. Let go of him! He’s dragging you down!
Her heart screamed right back. Never letting go! She screamed at her legs, too. Try harder, damn it! Harder!
She pulled and kicked until she thought she couldn’t kick any more. Couldn’t see, either.
One more kick! Just one more!
And just like that, she popped out on the surface, gasping and coughing and clutching at him.
“Tobin!” She meant to yell, but it came out in a choked whisper. “Tobin!”
She kicked toward the shore, dragging him along. On one stroke, her elbow struck his ribs, and Tobin started hacking and spitting and spluttering, too.
If she had an ounce of energy left, she’d have whooped.
“Tobin!”
He blinked and coughed, red in the face but alive. Alive!
His eyes rolled upward, climbing the fall they’d just jumped.
“Wow,” he mumbled.
Cara glanced up to find the guides making panicked gestures before disappearing back into the forest. The drug runners were up there, too, pointing. Shouting.
Unslinging their rifles and taking aim.
“Go!” she yelped and dragged him right.
The water splurted in a tiny upward splash two yards away. She swam with all her might.
Another splash, another bullet. Closer this time.
She kicked behind the shelter of a boulder at the edge of the pool and yanked Tobin in.
Pling! A bullet bounced off the rock, and they both ducked.
“And I thought the fall was the dangerous part,” Tobin muttered.
She balanced on a slippery underwater ledge and squeezed herself against the boulder. Kept her head barely above water level, as low as she could. Sh
e threw an arm over Tobin’s shoulders and squeezed him in, too, as bullets zipped overhead.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Gunshots chipped off little shards of rock.
Ping! The water a few inches to her right jumped up.
She closed her eyes until the shots stopped, and even then kept them closed. Just in case.
When she worked up the nerve to open them again, Tobin was waving a tentative hand in the open, then peering around the boulder.
“They’re gone.”
She peeked, too. Nobody at the top of the cliff but one grinning little boy. Waving, like he’d just witnessed a really cool stunt and not two people fleeing for their lives.
Tobin waved back and started paddling to the very spot they’d climbed out of the pool yesterday.
Yesterday. A lifetime ago.
Three weak strokes across the pool and her feet found the pebbly bottom. Three more steps and she made it, sprawling across a boulder, panting and coughing away. Her hand still clutched his shirt, and she planned to keep it there for a long, long time.
Tobin flopped on his side, the backpack still in place. He stared at the waterfall.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
She turned and looked at what they’d just done. Holy shit pretty much summed it up.
“Are you okay?”
Tobin’s eyes held hers. “I’m okay if you’re okay.”
Everything inside her that was still rattling in shock and fear settled down.
“Okay,” she whispered, forcing herself to move. She pulled him up then thumped him on the shoulder for good measure.
Tobin grinned that crooked grin and thumped her right back.
If only it were a day like yesterday. She might just drag him back behind the waterfall for another kiss — or two, or three.
Instead, she looked back up the cliff. “You think those drug runners will follow us down?”
“I think they might.”
“And the guides…” she started. “How long would it take them to get back to the village and sound the alarm?”
“Fifteen minutes at a run, maybe.”
She nodded. “Plus another half hour to get down here.” The hike yesterday had taken them two hours, but that was at a casual pace. If the villagers hoofed it…
“Not very much time.”
“Not very much time,” she echoed.
“So let’s go,” Tobin said. His voice was firm, resolute.
She looked at the jungle, crowding in from all sides. “Where to?”
Tobin turned with a devilish grin that only he could pull off at a time like this. His hair was half stuck to his scalp, curling this way and that. A leaf stuck out near his left ear and a line of water trickled down his brow.
Click. She grabbed the moment and stored it away forever. Knight in shining armor, Tobin-style.
He reached back, pulled the machete from his backpack, and motioned downslope with it. “Follow me, m’lady.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tobin stepped through the undergrowth, swinging the machete as he went. He hacked and swore and shoved at the foliage, not that that sped their progress up. Cara followed close enough to keep a hand clutched on his backpack, and he concentrated on that.
Get her out. Must get her out.
Zing! He swung the machete, again and again. Zing!
“Can I ask what the rest of the plan is?”
He answered without stopping. “I figure we follow this stream downslope until we hit the trail that runs along the river.” Hopefully.
That last part, he left out.
They were barely five minutes out of the water and he was already soaked with sweat. He threw another glance over his shoulder, expecting to catch the silent Pfft! of a poison dart any second, but there was nothing. Nothing but the mocking sound of a bird, the murmur of the stream.
“And then what?”
“Then we follow that to where I stashed Lucy.”
Leaves crunched as Cara pulled up short, her face going red. “Lucy? Who the hell is Lucy?”
Oops. Not the time to get his Italian beauty riled up.
He threw his hands up. “My motorcycle.”
The red went back over to pink. “You! You…” She slapped his arm. “Only you would name a motorcycle after a girl!”
“It wasn’t me! She was already named when I got her. Julie named her.”
“Julie?” She rammed her hands on her hips.
He waved his hands again. “I mean Julie — Seth’s girlfriend.” He glanced into the rain forest, then grabbed her hand and continued downhill, trying to summarize what had happened in Belize while running full tilt into a spider web of vines. Serendipity. Seth and Julie. Illegal artifacts. Sailing, running, saying goodbye.
She stared. “My God, Tobin, what have you been up to over the past couple of months?”
He grinned. If only she knew.
“But how could you trade your grandfather’s boat for a motorcycle?” She was steaming now, which made him glow with pride. Few people understood what that boat meant to him, but Cara did. The summers spent sailing on Serendipity, the stories his granddad would tell, the dreams he’d encouraged. No way would he ever get rid of that boat.
He couldn’t help but wonder what his grandfather would think of him now?
He’d be chuckling at the waterfall escapade, probably, and nodding in approval. But then he’d stare into the distance and tilt his head one way then the other as if there were a crossroads just ahead and he wondered which path Tobin would take.
Tobin wondered, too.
Cara tugged his hand. “I can’t believe you gave Serendipity away!”
The words jolted him back into the present, and into motion, pulling her along the rough trail. “I didn’t! Not really. I mean, it was sort of a trade. Seth and Julie still have the boat. Anyway, it’s a long story. Maybe I can tell it to you sometime.”
He stopped in his tracks and glanced at Cara. Sometime. Would they ever have that chance?
Her lips quirked a tiny little bit, and a bubble of hope tumbled through him.
“Maybe you can.”
They stared at each other until a bird cawed. Time to act, not to wish.
He was just starting to worry that he’d totally miscalculated distances when a hack of the machete brought them to a wide trail with an open view.
“Thank God,” he muttered.
“What?” Cara leaned in closer.
He straightened quickly. “Here we are.” Because he was supposed to know what he was doing, right? “There’s our bridge.” He pointed to the graceful arc of the rope bridge to the right.
“That? You call that a bridge?”
He grabbed her hand and set off in the opposite direction at a quick jog.
“But, you just said—” she protested.
“We need Lucy. Shouldn’t be far now.” He hoped. Because who knew how long they had before they had half the village and six drug runners in hot pursuit?
It was shorter than he thought, and he nearly skidded out in plain view of the bridge guards before grabbing Cara and crouching down. The rope bridge was far behind them now, with the ravine and the new bridge just to the right. The wide road in front of him ran perpendicular to the footpath — the same road to nowhere he’d originally driven up, only to get to the steep incline where he’d stashed his bike.
“Okay, this is the tricky part,” he whispered.
“Jumping off the waterfall wasn’t the tricky part?”
Good thing she didn’t know what he had in mind.
“We have to get around the corner without the guards seeing us to get Lucy.” He motioned uphill.
“I thought we’re trying to get away from the village, not head back toward it.”
“Lucy’s not far. Come on!”
He peeked again. No soccer game, by the looks of it. The guards were standing at various corners of the bridge, scanning the scene. Actually paying attention, for a change.
Where was the Wor
ld Cup when he needed it most?
He edged along the left side of the road, using leaves and vines for cover. A minute later, they padded around the bend and out of sight. Two minutes of puffing uphill to the massive tree trunk he used to remember the spot, and they were there. You couldn’t see a thing from the road, but good old Lucy was right where he left her, behind the shed-sized trunk of that tree. Vines were already curling around the wheels — the jungle worked that fast — but a couple of insistent heaves got her free, and with Cara’s help, he pushed the aging Kawasaki onto the dirt road.
Cara grabbed his arm. “How are we going to get over the bridge with all those guards there?”
“We’re not going over that bridge,” he said, handing her the backpack.
“Then what bridge are we going—” Cara went white. “Oh no. Not that bridge. Tell me you’re not thinking of that bridge.”
A voice rang out from up the road before he could answer, and they whipped their heads toward the source. One voice turned into several as three village men appeared, pointing and hollering and bringing their blowguns to their mouths. Running into view behind them came a couple of the drug-running gang. It was all a blur, but Tobin could tell by the camo. The scrappy beards. The rifles, pointing his way.
“Come on!” he yelled, pushing Lucy down the road. In five steps, they were around the corner and temporarily out of blowgun range — but back in the line of sight of the bridge guards, who still hadn’t taken notice of the action. But they would the minute he fired Lucy up, since there wasn’t a blaring television adding to the river noise.
Praying the old bike would fire up on the first try, he jumped on, hit the petcock and choke, and threw his weight into the biggest kick start of his life.
Lucy roared, sputtered to a near standstill, and then coughed back to life.
“Get on!” he shouted, pretty much the same second the bridge guards shouted and turned their way.
Cara slid on and he took off so fast, they’d have done a wheelie if it weren’t for the downslope. The barrels of several rifles swung their way as he curved left for a clear shot, then right, heading for the narrow riverside path he and Cara had come along minutes earlier.
The rat-a-tat-tat of a rifle sounded. A thousand birds fled the treetops in a giant whoosh. Cara clutched his ribs so hard, he could barely breathe, which was okay since he was barely breathing anyway. Not with a second and third rifle joining in.