by Jeanne Adams
Gates visibly struggled with his anger. “Idiot. Mucking up the works,” he growled.
“Yep,” she agreed, frowning over her data. “But if he can keep Hines off our collective asses, he’ll be an asset.”
The unintelligible noise Gates made in response was a mixture of a grunt and some foreign-sounding expletive. He hadn’t been idle as they talked, either.
“Got it,” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “We’re moving out.”
“Satellite photos?” she demanded, following him.
“Downloading.”
They hurried out, laptops in hand, knocking on doors.
Within minutes they were in the cars, checked out and heading out.
“How far away?”
“Thirty miles. Rough terrain, looks like. We’re too far south. We have to come up the highway, hang a left and then go on a...” He squinted at the screen. “Looks like either a gravel or dirt road.”
“The actual coordinates?”
“Looks like a hut, or a small building with a small open field. Not sure what else is there. There’s a pattern on the ground that’s probably only visible from the air, but I can’t tell what it is.”
Ana held her phone out to him. “Dial McGuire. I have to keep my eyes on the road.”
He did and she fitted her earpiece to her ear. When he answered, she said, “McGuire, where the hell are you?”
“Same place you are.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Damn it, girl. I’m in Belize. Is that what you wanted to hear? I told you I was going to go hunting.”
“Shit,” she cursed, knowing he wasn’t going to stop on her say-so. His grudge against Hines was too deep and too personal.
“We’re knee deep in shit,” McGuire said. “Got a lead, followed it. I’m betting I’m fairly close to you, since he’s after you and he’s after me, and some-the-hell-how, he’s figured out what I’m doing down here.”
She glanced at Gates, mouthed the words “mute it.”
He did, and she said, “He’s tracking Hines, thinks he’s pretty close to us because he said Hines is hunting me.”
Gates’s reply was succinct. “Fuck.”
“Perfect response,” she said, signaling him to unmute. “Hey, McGuire, think you can keep Hines off me? We’re headed toward a reserve; we have a lead on Dav’s location.”
“Excellent.” The muffled version of McGuire’s gruff voice came through the small speaker. “Hope to hell you find him alive and well and all that. I know what you look like now, missy, and most of your team. Don’t think I’ll shoot anyone by mistake,” he drawled. “I’ve got your back. Go get ’em, girl.”
“Will do.” They clicked off.
“Damn it, I need him not to be here,” she growled, irked that he was, that she was worried about him running around in the jungle. He wasn’t exactly young. She’d come to think of him as sort of an honorary uncle, and she didn’t want anything to happen to him.
“We need Hines not to be here,” Gates corrected. “McGuire’s always useful.”
“Okay, that’s true.” She shot him a glance, sighed. “He’s on it, he says.”
Gates glanced down at his computer, then back to her. “Then he’s on it and we’ll have to trust him. We’re approaching the turnoff. If the road is bad it’s going to slow us down.”
“I know,” she said, knowing too that every moment counted now. Every single one. “Can you get enough of a signal to check that ancestor Web site? Maybe that can give us something on who we’re dealing with.”
“Yeah, I can do that.” He busily punched keys. Without looking up, he added, “I want to check on Declan before we go in, so I may stop on this to call.”
“Call now.”
“This is running anyway,” he said, and pulled out his phone. He clipped on the satellite attachment. The local towers could handle Ana’s phone to McGuire’s; they were in the same country. To call the United States, they’d have to be sure they got the boost.
It was several long minutes before the phone connected. Georgiade answered on the third ring, and Gates put it on speaker.
“Hey, boss!” Georgiade sounded thrilled to hear from them. They exchanged glances. Was he the mole?
“Hey,” Gates replied. “How’s Dec? And Thompson, Queller and Damon? How’re you feeling?” he rattled off the questions before Georgiade could reply.
“I’m good, Thompson’s still sore. Queller’s acting like his dog got shot because he didn’t get to go with ya’ll. Damon’s doing good, though he won’t be handling the big car for a while, till he heals up. Thompson’s mopin’ too.”
“Dec?” Gates said, hoping that Georgiade’s order of information wasn’t best news to worst news.
“Improving,” Georgiade said, and his voice took on a note of caution. “He’s awake, and eating, but he doesn’t recognize us. Doc says he thinks he may have hit his head really hard going down, temporary memory loss.” Georgiade paused, added, “He recognized his folks though. That was good.”
“That is good. Tell him we’re thinking about him, okay?”
“Okay. I’m takin’ my shift at the hospital in a little while. Thompson’s over there now, with the new guy, Geddey.”
Ana heard a slight squeaking noise from the backseat and glanced in the rearview to see Callahan’s white face. She’d forgotten that Callahan knew there was a mole. Like Gates, whose expression was troubled, Callahan seemed to be worried that Thompson or even Geddey might be their leak.
Since he hadn’t heard anything to make him stop, Georgiade went on. “Geddey is hangin’ tough. Doing pretty good getting the hang, you know? He’s checking in with Dec a lot, makin’ sure he’s okay.” Georgiade paused, then added, “He’s a stand-up guy.”
“Good to know it,” Ana said, feeling like she had to say something. She still felt odd, knowing that Geddey would be looking after Dav. If they found him alive, that is.
“Who’s taking next shift?” Gates asked.
“Damon and Queller. With ya’ll gone, we’re a bit short, not to mention gimpy, all ’round.” He chuckled at his own joke. “They’re headin’ out in about thirty. You want to talk to either of’ em?”
“No, not right now,” Gates answered when Ana shook her head. “Have Geddey call me when he gets back.”
“Will do, boss. Ya’ll be careful.”
“We will.”
Gates disconnected the call and, without glancing at Callahan, said, “It’s good that he’s awake. And it may be good that he can’t remember. That may make him less of a target.”
“He’s not our mole,” Callahan said, staunchly.
From the other seat, Holden met Gates’s gaze with steady regard. Holden didn’t look like he wanted it to be Declan, but he didn’t look like he thought Declan was innocent either. They’d taken Holden into their confidence when he too had come to them with evidence that something wasn’t right on the plane, or with their data.
Ana watched all the silent byplay in the rearview mirror. They were like momentary snapshots as she shifted from looking at the road to checking out the players.
“Do you think it’s Declan, Mr. Holden?” Ana asked softly. When Callahan made a noise of denial, Ana held up a hand. “Let him speak. He’s one of the newest to our team. He’s observant. He hasn’t been with us long enough for it to be him, so he’s a good one to ask.”
“I don’t think it’s him, but I can’t rule him out. Someone made the transmission Callahan found, and it came from inside our compound. That means it could be anyone there, from one of the security team to one of the staff.
“He’s a low probability, though,” Holden added. “You don’t shoot up your inside man. And if you’re the inside man, you don’t shoot to kill. From what I hear, Georgiade thinks Dec actually got a kill shot. Maybe two.” When Gates raised an eyebrow, looking doubtful, Holden crossed his arms defensively. “Just because we haven’t found the bodies, doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
Callahan looke
d belligerent too, that anyone, especially Gates, would question Declan’s loyalty.
“Bax is on the lookout for gunshot victims at the local hospitals,” Ana commented, trying to find neutral ground.
“Wouldn’t go there, you know that,” Gates interjected.
“Would if they were dying, or dead,” Ana stated.
Before Gates could answer, his laptop beeped a response.
“Let’s see what the Mystery Lady was talking about.” He scanned the site, which had finally loaded in English. “Athens, birth records, data needed,” he said, tapping keys and inputting Dav’s birth date and his mother’s and father’s names.
Lines of script filled the pages and one showed an official-looking document. “Birth certificate,” Gates said, scrolling past it to search for information they didn’t know.
“There’s Niko,” he said, pointing to another line of text, another birth certificate.
“Go further back,” Ana urged. “Look at his father, or his mother.”
“Or Niko’s mother.” Callahan spoke for the first time.
“Right,” Gates said. Without looking up, he said, “Your turn’s in fifteen minutes or so, give or take. Holden, watch the time.”
“Yessir.”
“What year are you on?” Ana asked.
“I’m in the sixties, and there’s noth—” Gates stopped in midword.
“What?” Three voices chorused the word.
Chapter 18
The final part of the tunnel seemed to last an eternity. He had managed to walk in the dark for several hours, switching on the light every once in awhile to be sure he could find the last drop shaft.
The beam of light was even weaker and wavered in the darkness. He shone it forward, just as he took a step.
“Ahhh, shit!” he exclaimed, and turned the step into a leap as he found empty space beneath his feet. Off balance, he landed on his left leg, with the right slipping on the edge of the abyss.
He threw himself forward, landing hard on elbows and hands.
The pain was excruciating. Every bone in his body rattled, every bruise and slice reawakened to vibrant, throbbing pain. His ankle was twisted and he could only pray he hadn’t broken that, too.
Cursing and groaning, he groped for the flashlight. Its fading beam showed his trousers torn at the knees, but the other effects were mere pain rather than the bloody mess he’d expected.
“More bruises. Soon I will be able to connect the dots of my bruises,” he said aloud, needing to hear something besides the endless silence and his own thoughts. “I should talk to myself more often,” he decided. “At least when I’m not complaining.”
He’d often wondered about people who talked to themselves. Now he understood. At least in this situation, it kept fear at bay.
“Get up, Davros,” he ordered. “Keep moving. Pain or no pain, you don’t keep the lady waiting.”
He struggled to his feet, remembering to watch his head in this part of the tunnel. It narrowed again here, briefly.
“It is good that you have a memory for places, otherwise you would be explaining to God why you were stupid enough to get dead and leave Carrie up there all alone.” He grunted as he wavered into the wall, bouncing his shoulder off it again. “I do not think God would approve.”
He stopped and uncapped the canteen. “Carrie said to keep drinking water.” He thought of her as he drank. “I need some of her aspirin. I really do.” He winced as he raised the container up, draining it. The motion had pulled loose the tatters of his shirt and reopened the cuts. He felt the warmth of blood on his back, slipping down to soak his belt and pants.
“At this rate, I’ll leave a blood trail everywhere I go.” He opened the second canteen, drained most of it as well. “Not much farther though.”
As he stumbled on in the darkness, he prayed she had made it to the campsite, prayed she would be there.
Be there, be there, betherebetherebetherebethere. The words became a mantra in his mind and he put one foot in front of the other to the rhythm they created. He was so intent on putting his head down and staying upright, that he didn’t notice the light.
When he realized he could see his dusty, ruined loafers, he stopped. For a moment he simply stared at them. They were disgraceful, dirty, with warped edges and twisted, shrunken tassels.
Then it occurred to him. He could see them.
His slowed thought processes took a second longer to compute the sight, correlate it with the fact that there was light enough by which to see.
Dav looked up. Ahead, perhaps a hundred yards, lay the entrance to the cell.
“I made it,” he whispered. But would she be there? Had Carrie made it?
He had to know. Now.
Breaking into a stumbling run, he wheezed down the corridor. The wheezing worried him in an abstract sort of way. Had he broken a rib? Perhaps the dust.
It didn’t matter. There was light.
At the last minute, he stopped himself before he burst into the open cell. The movement, the adrenaline of his short run, had cleared his thinking somewhat. Enemies could lie above, anything could have happened while he traversed the interminable dark.
He stopped cold as he got to the end of the tunnel, squinting as the intense light made his eyes water.
The pivoting door was cool against his heated skin. He peered around the back edge of it and saw that the grate was clear. Squinting through the dust and sweat in his eyes, he realized that the lock was gone.
Someone had moved the body off the grate and removed the lock. His heart leaped up.
He had to take a chance.
“Carrie-mou?” he called softly. “Carrie? Are you out there?” He tried again, louder. Then a third time, at a near shout.
Despair hit him like a sledgehammer when she didn’t answer. He moved into the cell, noting the blackened, curdled dirt where the kidnapper’s blood and other things had dropped and pooled. The grate was heavily encrusted with gore as well, and though it had dried and blackened, the smell was enormous. Evidently, the body, what was left of it, had been pulled off the grate and into the dirt.
“Carrie?” he said it again, yelling this time. What did he have to lose? “Carrie!”
From above, rustling, the pounding sound of running feet.
“Dav? Dav, is that you?” her frantic voice called, and her shadow fell over him as she knelt by the grate. Squinting against the light, he raised a hand to block the glare.
Part of him nearly wept. He had thought he might never hear her voice again, see her again.
As that thought hit, so did the words in the darkness come back to him. She could be part of it, in on it.
It really didn’t matter. He would trust his gut, and trust her. And if he died for it, so be it.
“Oh, Dav,” she sighed his name. “You made it. I knew you could do it.”
A grin split his face, causing him to wince as hitherto unknown injuries made themselves known. Evidently, at some point, he’d split his lip because the scabbed wound reopened now, and he felt the sting of salt and blood.
“It’s me,” he replied, belatedly realizing she would want an answer. “I made it.”
“Oh, thank God!” Her heartfelt words were accompanied by a dragging, grating sound. “I have the ladder. I’m going to try to lift the grate again, but even if I can’t, I can get the ladder down to you. Then you can push and I can pull to get the grate open.”
“Good. Thank you,” he added. “Are you all right? Not hurt?” He grimaced at the question. Of course she was hurt. “I should say, no further injuries, I hope.”
Her laughter held an edge of tears to it, but it was laughter. “No. I’m eaten up with bug bites and scratched, and if I never see whatever this country is again, I’ll be happy. Otherwise, I’m okay. There’s food in the building here. Even some cold drinks, because there’s power in the damn place, believe it or not. I’ve been saving you some.”
The thought of cold water, a cold drink of any ki
nd, and something to eat made him unaccountably want to weep again. When her beautiful face appeared above him, over the grate, he conversely wanted to whoop with joy.
“You look beautiful,” he said without thinking. “You are beautiful, Carrie-mou. Thank God you’re alive.”
She smiled down at him, her hair falling around her face. Her tears fell through the bars, though her face was wreathed in happiness. One dripped down onto his cheek and he touched it with a finger, capturing it on the tip and looking at the perfection of that tear on his torn and bloody hand.
His heart, his gut, which had burned so desperately when she turned him down, felt like it was flipping over. Could he be ... in love with her? Was this what it felt like?
He had no answers and no one to ask but the woman who had declared him to be unacceptable. He would have to wait to find out.
“Hang on. I’ll have this down to you in a minute,” she said, and with an oomph of effort, she positioned the ladder by the grate. It took four tries to get it through and resting securely on the ground. She tried to heft the grate again, but it rose only a few inches, before she dropped it. “Damn it!” she exclaimed, frustration making her voice raspy and taut.
“You will need something to brace it, Carrie-mou. Then raise it, and brace again. I will climb up and help you.”
“Okay, okay,” she panted, letting the grate slip back into position. “A brace. I can do that. Be right back.”
She disappeared, and he began to climb. It was slow going, even though he wanted to race up the ladder. His hand couldn’t grip the side; it was stiff, swollen and he could smell the infection brewing under the bandages. They would have to deal with that as soon as possible.
He got to the top of the ladder and, with his good hand, pushed at the grate. His hand slipped in the dried blood, and he gagged at the stench that arose.
He retreated several rungs to regain control of his empty, but rebellious stomach. It was an agony to wait for her to come back, but the relief when she did was palpable. He felt even more light-headed to see her glorious blue eyes and smudged and dirty face.
To his surprise, she carried a length of pipe.