“Hell’s bells.” Dan ran a hand back through his hair again.
“I guess we could always turn her over to the local authorities,” she suggested.
“Negative.” Dan shook his head. “I say we get her some food, some water, make sure someone from the social services department—if there’s an equivalent department here, that is—looks after Jaya. And leave her here until someone from our side decides what to do with her. I don’t trust the locals. They’ll either let her get away scot-free or else brutally punish her for bringing this international goatfuck down on their heads. And I’m thinking something more in the middle of those two would be better suited to the crime.”
“Okay.” She nodded.
“In the meantime, you and I need to find the manager and get whatever information he has on that security director. Starting with a home address.” Again she nodded. “And Penni?”
“What?”
“If you wanna talk about what happened back in the bathr—”
She shook her head, ducking out from under the comforting, distracting weight of his arm. “No. Let’s chalk it up to grief mixed with exhaustion and idiocy, and leave it at that. At least for right now.”
For a moment he just stood there, so tall, so strong, his hard expression unreadable. Then he shrugged, nodding, and she blew out a relieved breath.
She’d said at least for right now. But if she had her way, they’d never speak of it. Though…Christ on the cross, she’d always remember what she’d so foolishly asked him to do…
* * *
“The rain has washed away their tracks,” Noordin complained, his whining tone traveling from the end of Umar’s spine up his vertebral column to detonate at the base of his skull. When he turned, he found Noordin’s face was still dripping from the hard deluge they had trudged through for nearly an hour. Then again, it was possible that was not rain but sweat. With the passing of the storm and the baking of the sun, the humidity in the air was almost palpable. Those who were unused to the oppressiveness of the jungle, like Noordin, tended to disintegrate into soggy, disgusting messes.
“We should wait for the others to arrive,” Noordin continued, swatting at a mosquito. The man was too miserable to heed the warning glinting in Umar’s eyes. The fool. “During the last call on the satellite phone, they said they are only thirty minutes behind us. If we delay until there are more of us, then we can spread out to search. It will be easier than fumbling around in circles in the middle of this hot—”
“Do you value your life?” Umar asked, tilting his head. Although the expression he donned was curious, the edge in his voice alerted Noordin to the precariousness of his situation. Umar could tolerate many things. Bellyaching, as the American’s called it, was not one of them.
Noordin gulped as a muscle near his eye twitched fitfully. “Of course.”
“Then you will close your mouth and refrain from speaking until I give you leave to do so. Do you understand?”
Noordin nodded vigorously, the other two men carefully keeping their eyes trained on the narrow jungle path lest they incur any residual spillover from his wrath.
“Good then.” He turned to point out a bush with a couple of crushed leaves near its base. “And, yes, the rain did obscure their path. But only if you do not know what to look for. You see there?”
The three men bobbed their heads obediently but didn’t say a word. Umar fought a smile. It had taken him years to engender this kind of fear in his subordinates. Years of maneuvering and fighting and killing. But it had all been worth it for moments like these. Moments when he could wield his superiority and power without ever having to touch the weapon slung over his shoulder.
Leaning forward, he pushed back the branches on the shrub, revealing the small footprints on the ground beneath. The plant’s leaves had protected the imprints from the fury of the storm. “As you can see, we are still on the correct path, and—”
The shrieking laugh of a child somewhere nearby cut him off. He cocked his head, listening…
There it was again!
“Follow me,” he hissed, breaking into a jog. Winding his way through the undergrowth, he hopped over twisting roots and dodged snaking vines. His men were not nearly as dexterous. In fact, he was pretty sure the quiet curse and muted thud he heard was Azahari falling to the ground behind him. He did not turn to check. Instead, he skidded to a stop at the edge of a clearing. One look at the crude little village cut into the middle of the jungle told him immediately what he was dealing with.
Orang Asli, the backward forest dwellers of Malaysia. The types of tribal people he considered barely better than the monkeys hanging in the trees. Poor. Dirty. Ignorant.