“Oui, mon ami,” Rock answered after a beat, once Dan’s cell signal had pinged to the other side of the globe and back. “But what if she decides to make a run for it—”
“We’re standing in a storage room just off a conference room,” he interrupted, understanding Rock’s confusion and concern before he finished the sentence. “Both can be locked from the outside.” He reached into his pocket to remove the universal keycard the hotel manager had given him.
“Right,” Rock said, but Dan was already opening the door, pulling it closed and securing it behind him.
“Penni!” he called. She was halfway across the vacant conference room, making a beeline for the hallway. Her ponytail flew out behind her as her long legs ate up the distance. “Penni, wait!”
She ignored him as she slammed out of the room. And the choked sob that drifted back to him hit his ears like a percussion grenade. He jettisoned after her, skirting the conference table and hopping over the trash can sitting beside a coffee service cart. Quickly pulling the door closed behind him, he scarcely registered the faint clicking sound of its automatic lock. Turning, he saw Penni disappear into the women’s bathroom.
Jogging down the deserted hallway—obviously the hotel manager had made good on Dan’s demands for privacy—he tried to think of what he could possibly say to Penni to bring her some small measure of comfort in this goddamned pisser of a situation. Unfortunately, like Eminem would say, I come from Detroit where it’s rough, and I’m not a smooth talker. But when he wrenched open the door to the ladies’ room only to have her instantly hurl herself into his arms, her nose buried in his neck, her hot tears wetting the fabric of his T-shirt, he realized no words were necessary.
Penni DePaul simply needed to be held. And, by God, he could certainly do that…
* * *
The river roared and thrashed over the rocks as Umar hung onto the rope he had strung across the watery expanse using an ancient technique his grandfather taught him. It basically consisted of attaching one end of the sturdy rope to a leader line, in this case some fishing filament, which was itself attached to native seedpod that was capable of floating atop water. Using a quickly constructed slingshot made of vines and palm bark, he sent the seed with the fishing line attached flying across the raging river. After a couple of failed attempts, the seed finally sailed over his target…the thick limb of a tree. Then, just as it’d done when his grandfather showed him how to do it twenty years ago, the weight of the seed caused it to fall to the ground, roll down the opposite bank, and plop into the water.
Then came the tricky part…
By carefully and patiently tugging, and subsequently letting out more and more slack in the lead line, Umar was able to make the seedpod dance across to their side of the river before it was washed too far downstream and he ran out of fishing filament. Then it was a small matter of sliding down the slippery bank without falling in, fetching the seed from the clutches of the seething water, and reeling in the line. Since the rope was attached to its opposite end, by reeling in the line, it forced the rope across the river, over the branch, and back to them. He finished the task by tying the two ends of the rope around the trunk of a tree. And, as the Americans would say, bingo! He and his men could now forge the volatile river by inching their way across the rope like silkworms. And even though the complicated maneuver had given his prey a head start of nearly two hours, it was far better than having to trudge the twenty or so miles down the trail to the next bridge.
Dropping to the ground after having tested that the rope would hold his weight, he dusted off his hands and turned to catch Azahari and Noordin exchange a look.
“You do not think it sturdy enough?” he asked his men, narrowing his eyes. Though he was no longer feeling the effects of the serum, it had left him overly tired, in turn making him overly irritable. Then again, his poor mood could simply be a result of knowing his months of careful planning—not to mention the small fortune he had spent—might all be for naught. And that his chances of ever seeing his brother again were slipping farther and farther from his grasp with each passing minute and each additional step that anak haram and the woman took toward the Thai border.
“It is not that,” Azahari assured him, reaching forward to lay a hand on his shoulder.
Umar looked down at the offending appendage. Then glanced at Azahari, lifting his brow.
Azahari quickly removed his fingers, and Umar secretly smiled when the man’s throat worked over a quick, uncomfortable swallow. Yes. You are walking the knife’s edge with me. Turning, he made sure to include the other men in the threat shining from his eyes. You all are.