“Nope,” Harvard said.
“Merde.” Jean-Luc straightened as he heard another car rumbling down the mountainside. He motioned to Harvard. “Grab the gun, take the Jeep, and try to get a hold of Quinn as soon as you have a signal. I’ll meet you at that little gas station we saw ten klicks back.”
He waited until Harvard was on the road before searching for a pen in the 4Runner’s glove box and scribbling the sedan’s license plate number on his hand. He didn’t have time to search the dead men’s pockets for ID—didn’t want to risk being caught at the scene of a crime by whoever was headed this way—so he snapped a picture of each of them with his phone, hoping Harvard could dig up their names from the photos.
After one last look around, he got into the 4Runner and started up the mountain, passing another SUV headed down. He adjusted the rearview mirror and watched the vehicle stop beside the sedan. Four men got out. One surged over to a dead body, scooped it up and cradled it, crying into its hair. A lost loved one, brother or cousin, and Jean-Luc felt for the man. That shit sucked.
The other three tangos drew guns and looked around, much the same as he and Harvard just had.
So it was the bad guys, after all.
He saw the exact moment that they remembered passing him, because they all ran for the SUV and it skidded into a U-turn, kicking up dirt.
And let the games begin.
Jean-Luc grinned to himself, switched on the cumbia rock station, and stood on the gas.
Chapter Ten
Night closed in fast on the jungle floor, throwing dank shadows across the path, slowing their progress to a crawl. Just when Audrey thought she couldn’t possibly take another step for fear of breaking an ankle out of exhaustion and lack of visibility, they emerged into a clearing soaked in the orange-red glow of evening sunlight. Pretty pink and red flowers bloomed in neat rows across the field. As a backdrop, blue mountain peaks stretched toward the saturated sky, with wild green jungle climbing as far up the slopes as the mountain allowed. For a moment, she forgot her aching feet, her exhaustion, her bone-deep fear, and yearned for her paints. She would never be able to do the stunning scenery justice on canvas, but boy, did she want to try. She’d paint it in soft, warm watercolors and call it, End of the Road.
Beyond the colorful field sat a cluster of thatched-roof huts that she prayed was their final destination. The guerillas all but dragged her through one of the rows between the flowers, seemingly as excited to get there as she was. Gabe would be waiting—she couldn’t think otherwise—and the notion of seeing him again spurred her onward even with overwhelming exhaustion plaguing her every step.
As soon as they renewed their forced march up the switchback, they’d been separated again despite his efforts to stay with her this time. Hours had passed since he and his guards disappeared up the trail ahead of her. The first hour after she’d lost sight of him, she kept thinking they’d turn a corner in the path and find him waiting. During the second hour, with still no sign of him or his guards, she wondered if they’d taken him somewhere else. The third, as fatigue started dragging her down, she spiraled toward depression, fearing he’d been led to his death like a lamb to slaughter, and that she was next.
Then she spotted him, seated on a crate by a sputtering fire, eating a plate of rice with his fingers. The flood of relief made her knees go weak. Gabe was no lamb. More like a mountain, as tall and sturdy and rugged as the one they’d spent the day climbing, the only solid thing she could anchor to in all this craziness.
Spotting her, he stopped eating, a handful of white rice halfway to his mouth, and his ears reddened with embarrassment. That was…kind of cute. She had noticed the careful way he ate back in the Jeep with the empanada, but now, given the situation, it was even funnier. Who’d have thought the big, bad former SEAL had the table manners of her grandma.
Without a word, she sat beside him and scooped up a handful of rice. He gave a faint smile lined with fatigue and pain and continued eating, leaving the last half for her. When they finished, the guerillas prodded them toward one of the huts. Gabe was limping now, and each time he put weight on his bad foot, his mouth tightened with pain.
Audrey wedged herself up underneath his arm. He made a move to push her away and she tightened her hold.
“Don’t you even think about it, bub.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar. You need help.”
“It’s okay, Aud. I’m fine. I can do it—”
“Gabe. Shut up.”
He grumbled under his breath, but then, surprisingly, his arm circled her waist. That he didn’t put up more of a fight just went to show how much pain he was actually in. They must have made quite a sight hobbling across the camp together, because the guerillas all stopped eating to watch. Some pointed and laughed. Others returned to their meals like it was SOP to have two injured and exhausted Americans in their midst. Well, it probably was.