David had evidently fallen far enough behind that he felt safe speaking in English. English made his words seem all the more final, the more painful. Regret stabbed Lucy in the heart. “Fucking bastards,” she choked out.
“Talk to me, Lucy,” he demanded as they struggled up the hill.
“There’s nothing to say. Mike’s dead. People die.” A recollection of the bombing in Valencia streaked through her mind.
Glancing back, she was alarmed to find David practically upon their heels. Shit! Why were they speaking in English?
“I’m just lightheaded,” she added in Spanish. “Probably dehydrated.” She increased her speed, pulling Gus with her.
The roar of the waterfall grew louder. They came upon the little slice of paradise abruptly. As Gus threw himself onto a log to remove his boots and socks, Lucy stared at the sheet of rushing water, soothed by its endless flow.
“You coming in?” he asked, approaching the water with his clothes on.
“No,” she answered. She didn’t want to talk to him, to explain what was wrong with her. She’d lost it. That was it.
“Join me,” he urged, “I want to show you something.” He flicked a look at David who stood with his back to the trees, hands in his pocket, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“No, I’m fine,” she insisted, afraid he would pull the only thread that kept her from unraveling. “Go in without me.”
She should have guessed what he intended when he approached with his eyes averted. He snatched her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and ran into the water with her. Her startled screech of disapproval came too late.
They landed in the frigid water with a splash! The chill sobered Lucy from her daze. Furious that he’d physically coerced her, she went to strangle him.
But he easily deflected her hands. Seizing her wrists, he locked them behind her back and pulled her into what was no doubt meant to be a comforting embrace.
No! Lucy panicked. Not tenderness! Not again.
She screamed at him under the water, a hoarse, bubbly roar that earned her immediate freedom.
Pushing to the surface, she gulped down air while swallowing back a sob. Keeping her stricken face averted, she swam to shore to anchor herself on a rock.
Get it together, Luce! What the hell is wrong with you?
She heard Gus break the surface behind her. She could sense him treading water thoughtfully, keeping his distance.
The mineral scent of stone filled her nostrils. Just breathe, she told herself. This storm, like the occasional bouts of depression she’d suffered through the years, would pass. She would land on her feet. She would pull it together. She just needed more time.
“Señor,” called David unexpectedly. “I am going downstream to look for a special tree bark that will help with the welts,” he explained.
David must have sensed the tension between them. Despite Marquez’s orders, he was leaving them to hash it out. Oh, no. Not today. Lucy started climbing out. She would rather just forget about it.
Gus caught her by the pant leg. “Wait, I want to show you something,” he insisted, repeating what he’d said earlier.
Streaming water onto the rock, Lucy hesitated. Maybe he just wanted to update her on his call to the JIC. After all, it had been important enough for him to risk his life to make it. “Show me what?” she demanded, slipping back into the pool.
Grabbing her hand, he pulled her toward the wall of water dimpling the surface in front of them.
“Hold your breath,” he cautioned as he hauled her through it.
Water pounded briefly on their heads. In the next instant, she was treading water in a tranquil shelter, a wall of water on one side, mossy granite on the other. Bluish light flickered on Gus’s face as he awaited her reaction.
“I didn’t know this was here,” she admitted, her strained voice echoing in the natural enclosure.
Clasping a ledge with one hand, he pulled her slowly, cautiously against him.
She stiffened, marshalling the emotions swirling inside of her, overlaid by physical awareness as he slipped a leg between her thighs. Even with his head swollen and his face disfigured his eyes drew her. She clasped his shoulders, loving the rock-hard feel of them beneath her hands.
“I should kick your butt,” she growled at him, clinging on to her anger to keep from dissolving into tears. “You know you could’ve died in that damn shed.”
“I know. And trust me, I’m sorry. But I think I broke the code, and I wanted to tell the JIC.”
She blinked. “You broke the code?”
“I think so.” He explained that the letters in the names possibly spelled out the camps’ global positioning.
“You’re a freaking genius!” she praised him.
“Yeah, right. If I was that smart I would’ve figured it out yesterday, and the JIC would’ve had the Predator in position, analyzing today’s transmission with the hostages.”
“It was probably up there. Give yourself a break. We’ve only been here a few days,” she reasoned.
He sent her a grave, searching look. “I’m not the one who’s hard on myself, Luce,” he countered gently.
Emotion gripped her by the throat. She cast her eyes about, but there was no getting out of this.
“What’s on your mind?” he prompted patiently.
She drew a deep breath. “I hate it when people die before they’re supposed to,” she admitted quickly, managing to guard her composure.
With a sigh of understanding, he lowered his forehead to hers. “Yeah, me, too,” he admitted sympathetically. “I wouldn’t be a SEAL at all if it weren’t for what happened to my father. I just couldn’t understand how anyone, regardless of culture or religion, could target thousands of innocent people like that. It was just so warped.”
The pain in his voice made her clutch him tighter. “I saw my friends die in Valencia,” she heard herself admit.
He lifted his head abruptly, surprise fixing his gaze. “You saw them die?” he repeated in astonishment. “You were there? You never told me that.” They’d still been in contact via e-mail.
“I was sitting in the outdoor café with them when the bomb went off.”
“Jesus, Luce,” he breathed. “How’d you keep from getting killed?”
“The wrought-iron table flipped over, pinning me under it.”
He searched her rigidly held face with horror. She could feel his heart pounding through their wet clothing as he pulled her suddenly, fiercely to him. “God, no wonder,” he rasped by her ear.
For a moment she let him hold her, and she absorbed the comfort of his heat, his honest and complete sympathy. “No wonder what?” she prompted after a while.
He set her slightly away from him, seeming to consider what he would say next. “No wonder you’ve taken so many risks all these years,” he said steadily.
His assertion made her frown. “What are you talking about? Our jobs are dangerous. I don’t take any unnecessary risks,” she insisted.
He just looked at her. “Think back on your career, Luce, and be honest with yourself. Ten months ago, the agency told you to bury your intel gear and go on ice. Did you do that? No, you had to sneak into the warehouse to get those CDs. And don’t try to deny it. I could feel them in your pocket.”
She drew a sharp breath. “That was completely necessary,” she insisted.
“And the car chase in Morocco? Was that necessary, too?”
“Of course.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Haven’t you ever considered that you feel guilty for not dying when your friends died?” he asked her gently.
A mix of emotions erupted in Lucy’s chest. She fought to keep her tone light, incredulous, even. “Bravo, James,” she exclaimed. “You should have majored in psychology. Like I said before, you’re a freaking genius.” With a mighty shove, she managed to secure her freedom, pushing off the wall of granite to dive beneath his arm, swimming out of the intimate enclosure where his words had opened a ra
w wound.
He thought she suffered from survivor’s guilt. What a crock of shit.
As her eyes cleared the water, adrenaline dropkicked in her stomach. Oh, no. There sat David on a log not ten feet away, regarding her with puzzled wariness. There was no telling how long he’d been there or how much he might have overheard of their conversation. A single English word could have been enough to betray them.
She could sense Gus about to break the surface beside her. She tried kicking him underwater and missed. And all she could do was hope he would open his eyes before he opened his mouth first and got them both killed.
THE INSTANT HIS HEAD CLEARED THE WATER, Gus mentally kicked himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! he raged, wrestling down his powerful dismay in order to send the stealthy Arhuacan a pleasant smile.
With a long side stroke, he shared quick eye contact with Lucy, who looked pale-faced but composed. Maybe all wasn’t lost. It depended on how much, if anything, the youth had overheard.
“What do you have there?” he asked, nodding at the object in David’s hands as he dragged himself from the water.
“Achoi tree bark,” said David, showing him the bark’s milky underside. “My mother’s people have used it for years. You boil it in water to make a tea. It will stop the swelling.” He flicked a glance at Lucy as she rose from the water.
Easing onto the rock next to David, Gus reached for his boots, practically under the rebel’s feet. He made a point to sit parallel to him, keeping his body language friendly, nonconfrontational. Wringing the water from his T-shirt and then his pants, he breathed in sync with him as Lucy sat on the shore, presenting her profile and doing likewise. Second by second, Gus could sense David relaxing, reordering his suspicions.
Damn it, they should’ve been using this opportunity to milk the kid for information. Instead he and Lucy had been too caught up in each other and their motives for doing what they did to even notice his return.
“Do you feel better?” David asked him with a searching look.
“I do, thank you,” said Gus, patting him on the back.
His touch, like the other nonverbal cues, was a CIA tactic, employed to foster trust. Both he and Lucy had been trained to utilize such techniques. David, hopefully, didn’t realize that. But given the grave expression on his face, he wasn’t going to be the prime informant Gus had hoped he might be.
CHAPTER 10
The marvelous tea made from the bark of the Achoi tree didn’t just reduce the welts on Gus’s neck and head; it put him into a deep, peaceful slumber.
Lucy, fated to play his loving wife, sat cross-legged at the edge of their mat under the protection of the mosquito netting, watching over him. As shadows lengthened in their cubby, thoughts flowed through her mind like the endless rush of water at the salto.
Gus’s insinuation that she fueled her efforts on survivor’s guilt had left her simmering with resentment. What she felt about the bombing that had killed her friends wasn’t guilt. It was anger.
She could still picture the perpetrator, a bearded stranger who had caught her eye as he walked against the tide of pedestrians marching along Calle de los Caballeros in a festival parade. With a wild glance back at the car parked along the narrow street, he’d groped under his jacket. Instinct alone had alerted Lucy to his intentions, only she’d had no time to warn her friends, who were seated with her at the outdoor café.
In the next instant, the force of the blast had ejected them from their seats. The wrought-iron table had slammed into Lucy, shielding her from the bomb’s blast, then pinned her beneath it as they crashed to the ground together. By the time she’d regained consciousness and crawled out from under the table, the quaint artsy district called Barrio del Carmen had been filled with smoke and blood and dismembered bodies.
Of the four exchange students studying at Don Quijote Language School, she was the only one to escape alive, not a mark on her.
Wasn’t that reason enough to be riddled with survivor’s guilt?
Tears stabbed the backs of Lucy’s eyes as she glared down at Gus’s dozing countenance. She wished he were awake so she could hiss at him, Damn you. I don’t take unnecessary risks!
Only that would make her a liar, wouldn’t it?
If she was being honest with herself, the high-speed chase in Morocco two years before had been unnecessary. She could’ve just turned into an alleyway and waited quietly for her pursuers to roar by, only she’d wanted them to chase her and to die trying. She hadn’t even considered that she might get hurt herself. And ten months ago, she could have boarded the rescue helicopter at the embassy in Caracas, Venezuela, like all the other staffers, and gotten the hell out of there. But she hadn’t. And Gus had to be sent in to extract her.
Hell, it wasn’t that much of a long shot to deduce she had a death wish.
Maybe Gus wasn’t so far off the mark with his assertion.
But the incident at the warehouse in Maiquetía must have been the turning point. The lieutenant who’d brutalized and nearly raped her had put her in touch with her fear. She had gone from one extreme to another, her recklessness replaced by reluctance, confidence ousted by cowardliness.
Unacceptable. She needed to get her professional edge back. She had to. Because once this assignment was over and she and Gus parted ways, she would have no one to bolster her courage, no one to look out for her.
Lucy swallowed hard. She didn’t want to think about that day. Not because she’d miss Gus. She’d done fine these past years without him. She’d do fine again. But what if she never shook her PTSD? What if it remained with her forever? She’d be a wash-up, taking some quiet assignment that did nothing to promote the security of her country.
God forbid. She’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than live forever as a sputtering flame.
A woman’s tearful supplication jerked Lucy from a light sleep.
“Easy,” whispered Gus. The effects of the herbal tea must have worn off. He sounded fully awake, his body tense and coiled for action as he peeked through an opening he’d made in the leafy wall.
“What’s going on?” she asked drowsily, shivering at the draft he’d created by moving.
A wedge of golden light danced on his brow ridge, illumining his alert gaze. “Buitre’s got three of the women tied together,” he whispered. “It looks like he plans on taking them somewhere.”
“Now?” She came more sharply awake. “In the middle of the night?”
“That’s probably why they’re tied together. So they won’t get lost.”
Lucy squirmed higher, making her own little peephole to peer out. In the light of Buitre’s electric lantern, she discerned three helpless, sleepy-eyed females roped together at the wrist—Petra, Maife, and Carmen. “Where’s he taking them? To another camp?”
“I don’t know.” He sat up abruptly, reaching for his boots. “But I’m going to find out.”
She tossed off the blanket. “Not without me, you’re not.”
Before she could roll off the mat, he body-checked her. “It’s pitch-black outside,” he informed her on a whisper.
“So?” She tried to push him aside. It was like trying to move a mountain.
“So you’ll be a liability, Luce,” he argued in her ear. “I’m used to moving in the jungle. You are not. Now stay here.”
Why did he have to be so goddamn logical? It left her without an argument. “I thought we were partners,” she hissed, giving him an angry shove.
He caught himself from spilling onto his backside. Rolling forward again, he reached for her. Lucy flinched, surprised when he pulled her lips to his, and kissed her hard. “We are,” he reassured her.
Befuddled, frustrated, and only a little bit mollified, she watched him dress in his damp clothing, then slip out the back flap of the bungalow. She strained her ears to hear him, but all she could discern were leaves ruffling under a light breeze.
Peering outside again, she saw Buitre’s lantern bob toward the trail, casting grotesque sh
adows on the trees. The poor females straggled behind him. Lucy had befriended several of them. No doubt Buitre was dragging them off to service some high-ranking FARC in a different camp.
Bastards. The girls here already did the brunt of the work—cooking, toting, cleaning, even fighting alongside the men. Having to pleasure them, also, seemed so grossly unfair.
Welcome to Oz, Luce. You wanted to be here, remember?
She watched until the light of Buitre’s lantern disappeared abruptly, leaving the camp pitch-black. There was no sign of Gus at all, skulking along in his wake. Presuming he could keep up, how would he ever find his way back?
Squirming back beneath the blanket, she dropped her head on her forearm and squeezed her eyes shut.
She’d been sleeping just fine before the interruption. Now she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink till Gus got back. Having a partner could be downright excruciating.
THE JUNGLE WAS IMPOSSIBLY DARK—so dark, in fact, that the only way for Gus to know what the terrain under his feet was like was to memorize the dips and turns illumined by Buitre’s lantern several yards up ahead of him.
Praying he wouldn’t sprain an ankle or spear himself on one of the razor-sharp bamboo spikes hemming him in, he inched along after them.
Without night-vision goggles, this kind of surveillance wasn’t just risky, it was virtually impossible. He tried to be quiet, but bumbling along like a blind man made that difficult. Thankfully, a stiff breeze caused the leaves to rustle and branches to creak, masking the sounds of his pursuit.
There was no going back now. Darkness dogged his footsteps, as impenetrable as tar. If Buitre didn’t back-track tonight with that lantern, Gus had no idea how he’d get back, only he couldn’t leave Lucy by herself. Then again, after what he’d said to her yesterday, maybe she’d be glad if he didn’t come back.
He shouldn’t have laid his survivor’s-guilt theory on her at a time like this. She had enough to contend with just coping with Mike Howitz’s fate. They used to be colleagues, for Christ’s sake. But her confession had made everything so startlingly clear to him that he’d felt compelled to share his realization.
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