“What did he say?” Steady asked from the corner of his mouth, keeping a wary eye on the animated little guy.
Abby turned and planted her hands on her hips. “I read a few articles.” She frowned at him. “I didn’t learn the different dialects for the whole frickin’ country. Sheesh.”
“Well, you seem to know everything else,” he said in his own defense.
“Atchoo ipecac!” Señor SP said again, strolling forward to grab Abby’s arm.
“Whoa there, compadre.” Steady’s senses instantly went from high alert to code red. “Hands off the woman.”
The little guy didn’t need to speak English to recognize the warning in Steady’s tone. He lifted his gnarled, aged hand from Abby’s arm and bowed his head in acknowledgment, smiling that toothless smile. Then he raised his fingers to his mouth and pantomimed taking a bite of something.
“I think he wants to give us food.”
“Sí,” he agreed. “Without reading a single article, I was able to piece that one together all by myself.”
She frowned, swatting his arm.
He swatted her—gently—right back.
“Stop it,” she said.
“You stop it.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Señor SP turned into the undergrowth, gesturing for them to follow.
“Can we go with him?” she asked, and damned if Steady could ignore the note of hope in her voice. She hadn’t complained once since they started out on this humid, airless hike, but he’d heard her stomach growling like it was trying to gnaw its way through her backbone. “I-I’m really hungry. And I could use a break. And there’s a good chance—”
“How do you know he’s not working for the JI?”
Her head tipped back and to the side. “Well, because the Orang Asli aren’t interested in political affiliations or terrorist pursuits. They’re a peaceful people. Probably stems from the fact that they’re a matriarchal society.” She nudged him. “See what putting women in charge will get you?”
“You mean besides ridiculous T-shirts and big hair?”
She swatted his arm again.
He swatted her back.
“Stop it,” she hissed.
“You stop it,” he repeated, his stomach muscles twitching with repressed laughter.
For a moment, they just stood there, smirking at one another, the years of separation having melted away. Then she shook her head, frowning. “But seriously. What use would the JI have for them? The Orang Asli have no weapons, no money, and no military training.”
“Not to mention the fact that they’re seriously vertically challenged.”
Abby glanced over at Señor SP. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think they’re actually a pretty average height for the region. This guy is just particularly…uh…petite.”
“Why are you whispering?” he asked. “He can’t understand you.”
Her chin jerked back. “Whatever,” she huffed. “Can we go with him, or what?”
Steady weighed his options. On the one hand, Abby had yet to steer him wrong. So his instincts told him to trust her on this occasion, too. On the other hand, he really, really wanted to cross that border. He wouldn’t rest easy until they were safe and sound in Thailand.
Then again, they might not make that border without getting some food in her. For all her grit and bravado, the dark circles under her eyes—not to mention the sunken look to her cheeks—told him she was getting very close to reaching the end of her rope. Even Señor SP seemed to understand that, because he glanced back at Abby, frowned, and motioned again for them to follow him, once again pantomiming taking a bite of something.
Hue puta! His decision was made. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go get some food, eh? But I warn you, if he makes me eat a grub worm, I’m never forgiving you. I’ve managed to go my whole career without noshing on creepy crawly things, and it’s a trend I’d like to see continue.”
Some of the guys he’d trained and worked with over the years took great pride in their ability to make a meal out of just about anything they stumbled across. Grass, bugs, fungi, moss. But Steady’s background in medicine gave him a natural aversion to things abounding with bacteria or loaded with weird unprocessed chemicals. And his beliefs were solidified the time he watched a fellow Ranger who ate a bad mushroom hallucinate for six hours straight. The wild-eyed dude had pulled a knife on his fellow soldiers, threatening to cut off everyone’s balls—not something any man took lightly, but particularly not a group of beefed-up GIs—and the result had been that the guy came out of his delirium to find himself hog-tied by a bunch of carabiners and bungee cords, and with a length of duct tape slapped over his mouth.