Chapter 25
Eddy stared at Gabe. Six feet four inches of solid male lay at her feet. “Durrand?” She said his name softly. There was no answer. Not even a flicker of recognition. “Durrand!” Nothing.
Squashing every fidgety instinct in her, she knelt beside him. She’d been trained to field dress wounds. She’d been trained, she reminded herself and found she had forgotten the simplest instructions. Taking a deep breath, she settled back on her heels and forced herself to examine the injury. It was high on his shoulder, well away from his heart. That was something, at least. Still, she’d have to staunch the bleeding, she thought, but realized in a moment that it was far too late for that. He’d probably stopped hemorrhaging hours ago…while they were racing downhill dodging bullets and boulders. She exhaled slowly and dropped her head between her knees. No point in passing out, as well. Not that a trained operative would pass out. She closed her eyes.
Then again, how much worse could it be if she were unconscious? They were alone in the jungle with the police chasing them. They were lost, and the lead on their suicide mission had been wounded, maybe fatally.
She inhaled carefully. Exhaled slowly. No time for that kind of thinking. First things first. She had to get him out of the elements. Get him fluids. Get him medical help.
Which meant that he was right, they needed a car. She’d have to convince someone to stop. Maybe if some Good Samaritan saw him lying there he’d stop to help. More likely, they’d careen past and call the police. Colombia was not a wealthy country, but everyone and his sister had a cell phone and…
The sound of an engine stopped her thoughts. Someone was coming. Standing quickly, she dashed toward the road then jerked to a halt. There was no reason to assume the motorists weren’t the very same people they’d been running from. But perhaps that was a moot point. If she didn’t get medical help, Durrand would die. Stumbling onto the road, she braced her legs and waved both hands.
A white pickup truck raced toward her, swung wide and rushed past, leaving fumes and a raw feeling of panic in its wake. She stared dismally after it then fought to contain her despair. No time for that.
Maybe if she had a flag, something to wave, they would see her early enough to realize she posed no threat.
Hurrying back to Durrand, she retrieved his discarded shirt. Then, noticing his gun, she snatched it from the ground and raced back to the road. Another car was coming. She could hear it. White-hot hope surged inside her. She rushed downhill and fell, sliding five feet before stopping herself. Pain seared her hip, but it was her shin that ached the worst. Gasping, she wobbled to her feet and limped on. A red Volkswagen, far past its prime, was roaring up. Stumbling from the trees, she waved the shirt, but the dilapidated Beetle breezed past.
Shaking, she lurched to the nearest rock and sat down. Her leg throbbed. She pulled up her pants. A stick had pierced the pale skin near her shin bone. She pulled it out with unsteady hands. The wound appeared to be minor. Barely a trickle of blood marred her flesh.
Still, she was so immersed in her own woes, she barely noticed the next car. It was nearly upon her when she glanced up. Thirty feet past by the time she realized it was slowing down. Shoving her weapon into the waistband near her spine, she stood, jittery now that it seemed someone was willing to stop.
The car was aqua blue and angular, harkening from an earlier era. In a moment, a man stepped out of the vintage vehicle. He was young, barely out of his teens, and wore a white suit a little too large for his lanky frame. A cocky fedora shadowed his eyes.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“Oh!” Relief flooded her. “You’re American.” It was strange how seeing a compatriot felt tantamount to euphoria.
“Philadelphia originally.” He sauntered forward, grin a white slant in his lean face. “Name’s Greg Timpany. That’s my Thunderbird.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna ride to—”
“I need your help!” Her voice sounded panicked. She tried to smooth it. “My friend’s been wounded. We—”
“Wounded!” He stopped dead in his tracks, cocky taking a right turn toward scared.
Seeing it was too late to retract those damning words, she tried to soothe him. “He didn’t do anything wrong. We were just—”
“Listen…” He was already backing away. “I’ll get you an ambulance. They should be here in…” He shrugged, shook his head. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of—”
“I’m sorry,” she said and yanked the gun from her waistband.
He froze.
“Really sorry,” she said and winced.
He glanced toward his car, thoughts of escape all but visible as they raced through his brain.
She shook her head. “I can…” She was breathing hard, visibly shaking. “I’m an excellent shot.”
He lifted his hands a little then kept them even with his chest. “My wallet’s in the Bird. If you’ll let me get it, I’ll—”
“I don’t want your money.”
Somehow, those words didn’t seem to soothe him at all. He glanced at his car again.
“I don’t want to shoot you either,” she said and cocked the weapon.
“Okay.”
Another vehicle was coming. She could hear it rumbling down the hill toward them. Dammit! “I’m going to lower the gun. If you do anything…” She ran out of words, out of breath, out of ideas, but he shook his head.
“I won’t.”
“Put your hands down,” she ordered.
He did so slowly. She lowered the pistol, letting it fall unseen beside her injured leg.
The motorist slowed to gawk but kept driving.
Eddy breathed a sigh of relief as it rounded the bend and slipped out of sight, swallowed by the jungle. But pain suddenly slashed her arm. She jerked back. Too late. Timpany had knocked the pistol from her fingers. It skittered in the dirt. She dove for it. He grabbed it first.
She rose slowly, heart racing.
He straightened, too. Gone was his convivial grin. “What now, perra?” he asked.
She ignored the pejorative as best she could. “I still need help.”
He chuckled. The sound was not friendly. “I’m wondering what kind of reward is out on you.”
She shook her head, stunned that he had arrived at that conclusion so quickly. “None.”
“So your friend was shot for no good reason?”
“I didn’t say he was shot.” Did she?
He chuckled. “You just happened to be carrying a gun and tromping through the wilderness. Probably for sport. It’s all the rage in…” He paused, looking her over. “Wisconsin?”
“Listen, if you’ll help me get him to a doctor, I’ll pay you.”
He tilted back the fedora and raised his brows. “How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
He shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that ‘cause I’m willing to bet that whoever’s looking for you will. Who is it, by the way? A jealous lover? Le policia?” he asked then shook his head. “But maybe it doesn’t matter. A blond-haired beauty in this South American cesspool…” He smiled. The expression was icy. “What would that be worth to the cartel?” He stepped forward. She backed away.
“Don’t do this.”
“I gotta tell you, babe,” he said and jiggled the pistol a little. “These third world bastards don’t much care if their women come to them with bullet holes.” He shrugged. “They’re probably perforated in the end anyhow, but that’s not my problem, is—”
“I’m CIA!” she rasped. “Touch me and you’ll have the full force of the United States government on you like a pack of wolves.”
He stopped in his tracks. “CIA?”
“IOC Division.”
“IOC? Really?” His eyes were wide and as round as marbles.
She nodded.
“That’s fantastic. ‘Cause I’m Superman,” he said and throwing back his head, laughed out loud.
Maybe it was the raucous sound of his amusement that caused her to break. Maybe it was the pain in her leg or the fact that Durrand lay—possibly dead—in the undergrowth that made her snap.
But whatever the reason, she rushed him.
He jerked up the gun’s muzzle and fired.