Chapter Eight
Exhausted, Laura dozed off into a fitful sleep sitting on a small uncomfortable kitchen chair, but woke at some sound. Gonzalez sat on a better chair outside the kitchen door on the servants’ patio. Earlier, she’d explained that she needed to get ready to travel for her job with Margarita Ruiz, but he’d bluntly told her to sit and wait until her husband returned.
Mark had told her to leave if he didn’t come back.
She glanced at the wall clock. Nearly eleven PM. Mark had been gone for almost two hours. The household lay quiet. The Ruizes and Rosa must have gone to bed. Only Gonzalez was still awake. With him as watch dog, Laura didn’t know how she would get away if Mark didn’t return. She was considering simply sneaking out the front door and running, when she finally heard the side gate to the compound open. Gonzalez’s chair made a scraping sound as he stood.
“Stay there,” he ordered, but she stood on shaky legs.
The rumbling sound of an engine grew steadily louder, then died in the quiet night. Laura walked to the door and peered out. Gonzalez, hands behind his back, waited in the darkened passageway that led to the center of the compound.
Two car doors slammed. Footsteps crunched on gravel.
One of Ruiz’s men and Mark appeared out of the dark. Mark’s tux jacket was torn, his clothes looked wet and muddy. She wanted to rush to him, to make sure he was okay.
“It’s done,” she heard him say.
Gonzalez turned toward the other man. Laura recognized him as one of the two who’d come to her room the night before.
The man nodded. “It’s done.”
“Take her and go,” Gonzalez said to Mark. “Your clothes and shoes are there.” He indicated two neat bundles by the kitchen door. “Oscar will take you to your apartment. Be in Ciudad San Mateo on Saturday. The job is yours.” He held something out toward Mark. “Here is the address and what Don Ernesto promised you.”
Expression impassive, Mark took what appeared to be an envelope from Gonzalez’s hand. “I will be there Saturday,” he said.
Gonzalez turned and walked past Laura, and into the house.
“I will drive you, compadre,” Ruiz’s man said.
Mark nodded and turned to Laura. “Come on,” he said.
Before she could ask what he’d done, why he looked like this, he climbed into the cab of the truck and held his hand out to her. She clambered in thankful she didn’t have to sit beside Ruiz’s thug.
No one said a word as they left the compound. Puerto Escondido slept, only the hotel beachfront area visited by the tourists brightly lit. Mark put his arm across the back of the truck seat and looked at her closely, as if checking her features. Was he looking for more bruises?
Finally, the truck pulled to a stop in front of the dirt alleyway that led to Laura’s now abandoned room. Mark leaned across her and opened the truck door. She climbed down and turned, waiting for him.
“He would have made me do it,” Ruiz’s man said as Mark climbed out. “I owe you.”
Mark nodded and slammed the door. The truck roared off.
“What did you do?” she asked.
He turned, his face half in shadow. “Gambled.”
***
As soon as Ruiz’s man drove away, Laura followed Mark to the hut where they had left their things before reporting to Ruiz’s. There, he changed out of the ruined tux and buried it in the soft sandy earth. She asked him why, but he didn’t answer. She changed into her jeans and a T-shirt.
Then they walked for about a half hour in the dark to an old pickup badly in need of some body work. They sped onto the highway, and after crossing a bridge, turned onto a dirt track that wound between low Andean foothills and sandy dessert.
Mark said very little and Laura couldn’t read his expression in the dark. But as they bumped along a barely there track, his hands clenched the steering wheel in a grip that telegraphed anxiety.
He stopped the truck at the top of a hill that sloped down to a wide but seemingly shallow river that glittered in bright moonlight. “Wait here,” he said as he opened the door. The moon threw harsh shadows across his face.
She wanted to ask where he was going, what was wrong, but his tone demanded she remain silent. He closed the truck door and jogged down the hill until all she could see was his upper body. Then he disappeared, probably squatted.
An instant later he stood upright, his head bent, his shoulders sagging. So still.
Something was horribly wrong. She climbed out of the truck, drawn by the change in him.
As she started down the hill, she saw him staring at something on the ground. A bag, a pile. Something that didn’t move. Something that scared her because for an instant she thought she knew what lay at the edge of the river.
He looked up as she approached, his face haggard, his eyes shadowed in the night. “Go back. It’s too late.” The words seemed dragged from him, as if they pained him.
She had been right.
A man lay at his feet.
“Por Dios, Mark!” She rushed forward. In the dark, despite the bright wash of moonlight, she knew she wasn’t seeing all the horrible wounds on the man. “What happened?”
***
“He was beaten,” Mark said. Worse.
He watched as Laura fell to her knees beside Fuentes. What had happened? A gamble gone wrong. Another brave man was dead.
“But who would—” She stopped herself and looked up at him. Whatever she saw on his face apparently answered her question. “Ruiz,” she said, and turned back to gently brush her hand across Fuentes’s bloodied forehead.
Didn’t she understand? “He’s dead.”
She stopped, sat back on her heels, bowed her head and made a sign of the cross. Suddenly, she reached out and felt for Fuentes’s jugular.
“He’s dead,” Mark repeated.
She either didn’t hear or ignored him, her hand on Fuentes’s neck, her body tense.
“He’s alive.” Her voice cracked. “Feel.”
Mark squatted beside her and touched the man’s neck. For a lifetime of seconds they were both still on the cold damp sand, each silent, concentrating.
He felt it. Faint, yes, but there.
He jumped up and jogged back to the truck. Heart hammering, he backed over the crest of the hill toward where Laura sat with the agent. Her posture told him that every ounce of her concentrated on willing Fuentes to keep breathing.
He positioned the truck as close as possible and jumped out.
“His breathing is ragged,” she said. “We need to get him to a hospital quickly.”
“The closest hospitals will report this and word could get back to Ruiz. The clinic where I told you to go. They’ll have someone who can help. It’s not far.” Thank God.
He positioned himself at Fuentes’s head and squatted, his forearms under the man’s torso. He hadn’t been careful before because Oscar was watching, but now he tried not to cause more harm. He lifted Fuentes to a sitting position.
Fuentes moaned in pain. The sound grated through memories of blood and bravery. Of José Antonio Iglesias.
“What’s his name?” Laura asked. “If we talk to him, maybe he’ll hear something and know he’s going to be okay.”
Mark didn’t hesitate. “Victor.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll speak English so he won’t confuse me with anyone associated with Ruiz.” She brushed her hand across Fuentes’s forehead. “Victor,” she said softly, “we’re here to help you.”
Mark levered Fuentes upright, trying not to jostle the agent’s broken bones. Laura braced herself and kept his weight from the broken leg. They got him onto the truck bed.
When they had him settled, she crossed herself again. “Who is he?” she asked.
“San Matean Intelligence,” Mark replied.
She looked up over the prone body of the man Ruiz had tortured. “My father’s man.”
“Yes.” He glanced at her, knowing she would make the connection. If Ruiz could do this to Fuentes, what had he done to her son?
But Laura Iglesias proved tougher than he anticipated, or her faith in finding her son was stronger than his because she never said a word, never acknowledged the obvious. She did what had to be done. While he’d been the one who’d frozen.
She drove so he could sit in the back to keep Fuentes from shifting with the truck’s movements. Wind whipped at him as they drove east, higher and higher into the foothills of the Andes.
Finally, the clinic, housed in an abandoned ancient abbey, came into view. Moonlight outlined it against a line of eucalyptus trees. Laura drove behind the abbey built long ago by the Spanish. The truck rumbled to a stop beside the low adobe wall that encircled the building. A light came on inside.
Mark gently lowered Fuentes’s upper body to the truck and jumped out just as Laura opened her door. He dropped the tailgate and climbed back into the bed. Fuentes moaned and tossed his head from side to side.
“It’s okay,” Mark said in English. “You’re safe.”
“Should I ask for anyone in particular?” Laura asked.
“Just knock. Tell them a friend of Beatrice has brought a wounded man. As soon as we get him inside, I’ll hide the truck.”
She ran.
It had been too close. It still was.
The gamble he’d taken had been fraught with risks. Risks he wouldn’t second guess if he were alone. But he wasn’t.
And Victor Fuentes wasn’t home free. None of them were.
***
An hour, two, Laura lost track of time. While she’d feared the make-shift nature of the medical treatment available, she quickly learned that antibiotics, dressings, all were available. Most importantly, Beatrice, Mark’s sixty-something friend, knew what she was doing.
Victor Fuentes struggled, calling out first for his mother, then for someone named Marta. His wife, Laura decided, after he called her amor. Love. Mumbled disjointed phrases finally gave way to some clarity.
“Marta, te prometo.” I promise. “I’ll come home. You won’t be alone again.”
Laura’s heart ached for the wife, left home while her husband played the hero. Were there also children who would be left fatherless if this man, willing to risk his life, died?
“You’ll see,” Victor continued, his eyes glazed, but intent on her face. “Te adoro, Marta. Will you take me home?”
“Let us help you, Victor. Be still.” She wiped the agent’s fevered face with a cool cloth.
“Don’t leave me, Martita. Por favor,” the agent said, his voice raspy.
Laura took Victor’s hand. “I won’t.” But had his Marta stopped waiting? Had she given up on the life he’d left her to?
His eyes closed. “I promise. Others can save the world,” he muttered. Then Beatrice inadvertently jarred him and his eyes flew open. “We’ll make our world, Martita. Our family.”
“We will.” Laura said a silent prayer that Marta waited and quickly swiped at tears that escaped her control. The brave should never see the weak cry.
“You understand, don’t you, Martita? Why I had to do this?”
Yes, she knew, even if she didn’t know Victor Fuentes. She knew her brother, her father, her husband.
Even Mark.
She whispered, “Sí, querido. I understand. Because it’s the right thing to do.”
***
Mark stood beside the small infirmary’s sink as Laura washed her hands. She’d called the intelligence officer querido. Loved one. Was that the endearment she used for her husband? She had to be exhausted. It had taken the three of them, Beatrice, Laura and him to get Fuentes settled. The highly trained nurse practitioner had given Fuentes a sedative which had finally taken effect. The wall clock indicated it was just after two AM.
“There’s food if you are hungry,” Beatrice said. “You may use the two bedrooms at the end of that hall.” She pointed out a darkened doorway. “Women’s night clothes are in the dressers. We have nothing for a man. There is a small bath with a shower.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done, Beatrice,” Mark said.
“I am afraid you can’t stay here long. There are troop movements. Sometimes they stop.”
“Troop movements?” Mark echoed.
“They started this afternoon. From several Guardia barracks to the east, higher in the mountains,” the nurse explained. “I thought they would go north, to the frontera with Monte Blanco because there was another shooting there. But one soldier told me they are going to Las Cruzes.”
“That’s south,” Laura said, “close to the capital.”
“Yes. They won’t stop here at night, but it will be best if you leave in the morning.”
“We’ll leave now,” Mark said.
“No, you must sleep. Leave once you’re rested. You’ll be safe here for a few hours. We’ll hide your friend and take care of him until he can be moved safely for surgery.” With that, Beatrice bid them goodnight and left them.
“Are you hungry?” Mark asked.
“No. You?”
The damage Ruiz’s men had inflicted on Fuentes had turned his stomach. “Not at all.”
“Where will they take Victor for surgery?”
“There’s a hospital higher in the mountains,” Mark replied. “She’ll arrange to take him there under another name.”
“And notify his wife?”
“We don’t know that Marta is his wife. Fuentes has been undercover for over a year. Even if she is his wife, not a girlfriend, she may not have waited for him.”
“She’s waiting,” Laura said.
“His life isn’t cut out for permanence,” Mark said.
“Have you ever been married?”
“Not even close,” he said.
“I believe she’s waiting.”
“Why?”
“They’re planning to have children,” she said.
“Children aren’t a guarantee that a marriage will last.”
Laura wondered why he sounded so cynical. “I choose to believe she’s waiting.” The moment she spoke, she knew she’d painted herself a romantic.
“You honestly believe she didn’t move on?”
“For his sake, I hope she waited.” Victor Fuentes deserved a woman who was as brave as he. Laura didn’t want to think about Marta, alone and waiting, wondering, what happened to the man she loved. As she had waited and wondered. Until she knew.
“So do I,” Mark said.
The sincerity in his words touched her.
“We’ll leave at day break,” he said. “We should get a couple of hours of sleep. I’ll wake you.”
She covered her mouth as she yawned.
Mark reached out for her hand. “Fuentes bruised you.” He gently traced the red marks along the top of her hand.
“It’s nothing.”
“You were very good with him. Get some rest,” Mark said. “A shower might help you relax.”
She doubted anything could ever make her forget the horrors Victor Fuentes must have gone through. But a shower would be a good first try. “Good night.” She walked down the hall to the last room. Opening the door, she found a single bed, one with a real mattress, against one wall.
Strength depleted, emotions wobbly, Laura dragged herself to the shower. There, she simply stood, letting the hot water soothe her aching body and blanked her mind of the past few hours.
Ten minutes later, she was still shifting and turning in the bed. She shoved at the pillow and rearranged the covers yet again. The bed, which initially felt like heaven, was too comfortable after weeks of sleeping on nothing more than padding.
But she knew it wasn’t the bed. Images of Tony, frightened and desperate to come home, flashed through her mind. Victor Fuentes’s broken body… Absolute proof of what Ruiz was capable of, as if she didn’t already know. In the dark of the room, she couldn’t get thoughts of her son out of her mind. Would Ruiz do that to—
No, that didn’t bear consideration. She switched on the bedside lamp and stared at the ceiling.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, a shadow darkened the floor beneath the door. Then a door opened and closed.
Probably Mark going to take a shower. She wondered what he’d think of the tiny stall with the shower head so low even she’d had to bend to wash her hair. The sound of running water reached her. He was probably bumping his shoulders on the enclosure. She didn’t need to picture that.
Suddenly wide awake, eager for distraction, she sat up and began a slow investigation of the room. The small bedside table. A dresser, empty now that she’d used the gown inside. She’d placed her backpack on top of the only chair. A single window high enough that she had to tiptoe to see out into a courtyard. A bookcase, also empty. The attempt at distraction didn’t work. She slumped back against the headboard. How would she ever stop herself from worrying about Tony and Esperanza, and now, Victor Fuentes and his wife?
Hoping to find something to read, she leaned over from the bed and tugged at the handle of the bedside table. Wood screeched against wood. She cringed and stopped, then listened, hoping no one had heard. But the drawer had opened just enough that she could see a neat stack of old Spanish language Reader’s Digest magazines.
Bromas. Jokes. She needed jokes.
More carefully, she tugged at the drawer. The whole table wobbled, threatening to tip the lamp over. She reached down to steady it. Twisting, with one hand on the table and one on the drawer handle, she pulled gently but firmly.
No screech this time. She kept pulling as it opened another inch, but not enough for her to reach the magazines. Bracing one hand on the table again, she gave it one last tug. It hung for a moment, then gave way. Not balanced properly, she fell, landing on the rug beside the bed as the table listed forward, tipping the lamp to the floor.
She held on to the drawer and lunged for the lamp.
Just as a man’s hand closed over hers on the lamp, the other on the edge of the table.
She squelched a yelp and froze.
***
The warmth of Laura’s fingers seeped into Mark as he straightened the table and replaced the lamp. An instant later, the drawer, which she’d pulled out causing the noise he’d heard, tilted downward, and full to the top, spilled magazines out onto the floor beside her.
He’d panicked and barged in afraid he’d find her—what? Being attacked?
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
She shook her head and drew her legs tightly against her chest, her attention on the magazines spread in disarray across the floor.
He squatted beside her, still bare-chested after his shower. “I’ll help you get this stuff up.” The white long-sleeve nightshirt she wore hung on her, but the cloth, thin and worn to near translucency, made him want to lay her back onto the bed and—
“It’s okay.” She continued to stare at the magazines on the floor. “I can do it.”
He looked at what she was focused on. One magazine cover displayed a picture of a child. A boy.
Her thoughts were with her son, while his were filled with visions of her, naked. He was an ass.
He stood, his unbuttoned jeans clinging to his hips. “I’ll let you sleep.”
“No!” She grabbed his arm. “I’m—”
Exhausted. That’s what she was. “You need sleep, Laura,” he said gently, suddenly acutely aware of the pressure of each of her fingers on his bare arm.
“When I close my eyes.” She released her hold on him, climbed onto the bed and sat. “I see what Ruiz did to Victor.” Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about that.” Her voice got so quiet he could barely her. The tears spilled down her cheeks. “And Tony.
He placed the magazines back in the drawer, unable to find words to comfort her.
Then, in one of those impulsive moves that generally got him into a shit load of trouble, said, “Move over.”