As the hours passed, the atmosphere on the plane became so thick that it could have been pureed in a blender. Waiting, like war, was hell. Lora so strained to hear the sounds of approaching rescue that she gave herself a headache. Minelli paced restlessly, his eyes sliding away from Max, who spent most of his time staring at nothing with cold, expressionless eyes. DiAngelo slept; beyond checking to see that he was all right, there was little anyone could do for him. Lora spent most of her time with Tunafish, who was in dreadful pain though he tried to hide it. Sweat rolled freely down his face and his clothes were soaked with it, which wasn’t surprising; the interior of the plane became like an oven as the day wore on. Bugs flew through the holes in the metal fuselage to feast on whoever happened to strike their fancy. Curses and slaps were practically the only sounds, and they were nearly continuous.
The humidity was dreadful. Lora almost welcomed the onset of the afternoon downpour—until she found that the loud click-click striking the metal was not caused by raindrops alone. The force of the rain washed ticks down from the treetops, causing them to fall by the hundreds. Several dozen of them fell into the plane; Lora scrambled to her feet, shuddering as she first identified the repellant things. Max scooped as many as he could find onto a folded magazine and out into the jungle again, but Lora knew that he couldn’t possibly have captured them all. The thought of ticks made her want to scream, but screaming would have been useless. So she set her teeth, and sat back down on the floor beside Tunafish. She didn’t need Max’s quiet warning of disease to make her keep a sharp eye peeled. The thought of ticks crawling on her was revolting enough by itself.
After the rain cleared, Max grew increasingly restless. He prowled up and down the plane, then finally stopped by the hole.
“I’m going to scout around for water and something to eat. Minelli, you can come with me.”
It was an order, and from the look on Minelli’s face he didn’t like being given orders. For one frightening moment Lora thought the confrontation that she was rapidly beginning to regard as inevitable would occur there and then, but Minelli shrugged.
“Why not?” he said, and followed Max out the hole.
They were gone for perhaps an hour and a half. During that time, Lora mopped Tunafish’s sweating brow with what was left of Max’s windbreaker, and chewed slowly on half a Hershey bar, all that was left of the four that Tunafish, a chocoholic according to Max, had stowed in his jacket pocket. Once that was gone, there would be no more food, unless there was something growing in the jungle that they could eat. Or perhaps the men could hunt. Max seemed perfectly at home with a gun. Surely he could shoot something to eat. Or maybe they would be rescued before it became necessary. Lora tried to cling to that thought, but as minutes turned into hours it was gradually losing its power to comfort.
At least water would be no problem, Lora thought as she murmured soothingly to Tunafish, who slept restlessly with his head pillowed in her lap. Puddles of it still shimmered against the cockpit wall, which was the lowest point of the plane. She was thirsty, and looking at the water made her thirstier still. When Tunafish woke, she would swallow a handful. . . . DiAngelo was sleeping, too. At least, Lora hoped he was sleeping. He hadn’t moved for some time; perhaps he was comatose—or dead.
Minelli’s head and shoulders appeared through the hole without warning. An instant later, he laid a squat black pistol on the floor. She hadn’t realized he was armed. . . . Lora watched, wide-eyed, as he heaved himself inside and picked up the gun. What was he doing with it? Vivid images of mass murder flitted through her brain. It took an effort to dismiss them as ridiculous. She did not like him—something to do with the way he looked at her, she supposed. His eyes moved over her body from time to time with such intimacy that it gave her the willies. The last time, those loose lips had almost seemed to drool. . . . Lora shuddered. Face it, she just didn’t like the man. And she didn’t trust him.
This time, however, Minelli hardly spared her or the sleeping men a glance as, gun in hand, he made his way down to the cockpit and disappeared behind the torn curtain. Lora heard him thumping around, heard a faint whine and static, but she was hardly paying attention. Like an alert terrier, her mind was quivering with alarm as soon as it registered that Minelli—armed with a pistol—had returned alone. Where was Max? He had said that he might have to kill Minelli—had Minelli reached the same conclusion about Max? And carried out his plan more quickly? The mere idea of it made Lora’s heart beat faster. She couldn’t sit here and worry, she decided, she had to find out for herself. Carefully, she lifted Tunafish’s massive head from her lap and placed it on one of the flotation cushions she had removed from a seat. In the process Tunafish’s spaniel eyes opened.
“What . . .” He frowned at her for a moment, then his eyes narrowed and his face whitened. One hand made an abortive movement toward his splinted leg.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she began, when it occurred to her that she needed an ally. Tunafish could not move about, but maybe he could tell her that she was being silly. . . .
“Where’s the boss?”
Tunafish did not appear to have lost any of his mental faculties despite the pain, Lora concluded as she looked into eyes that seemed aware as well as awake. Which was a relief. If something had happened to Max, if he was injured or—she hated to even think the word—dead, Tunafish would be the only one she could turn to. Surprising how, under the circumstances, she had so quickly come to feel she could trust him; with her life, if necessary, certainly with Max’s.
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out. He left with Minelli—and Minelli’s back. Without Max. And with a gun.”
Tunafish had heard from Max what the plane carried, and his opinion of Ortega had been even less elegantly expressed than Max’s. At this new piece of information, Tunafish frowned. “Probably nothin’ to worry about,” he said finally. “Minelli’s got no reason to harm him—yet. And believe me, lady, the boss is one tough dude. He can take care of himself. I can’t see Minelli gettin’ the drop on him.”
“That gun . . .”
Tunafish shrugged. “I gave it to him myself, when the trouble started back in Mazatlán. Could be carryin’ it out because of the jungle. I would myself. No tellin’ what a man might run into out there.”
“I’m worried,” Lora muttered, and would have stood up if Tunafish hadn’t caught her hand.
“Wait.”
“I just want to see. . . .”
Tunafish shook his head. His hand tightened on hers. “Boss wouldn’t want you runnin’ around in the jungle. Dangerous. Besides, ain’t nothin’ you could do for him. If he’s dead, he’s dead, and if he ain’t, he’ll be back.”
This way of looking at it did not soothe Lora, and she opened her mouth to tell him so when Max himself appeared, levering himself through the hole. Like Minelli, he carried his pistol in his hand.
“Minelli back?” he demanded as he stood upright. At Lora’s frightened nod and gesture toward the cockpit, his face tightened. He made his way quickly toward where the rumble of Minelli’s voice could now be heard.
Lora’s head swiveled toward the sound—who on earth could Minelli be talking to?—just as there was a deafening burst of gunfire from behind the curtain. Lora’s mouth opened as Tunafish, eyes widening, jerked her down on the floor beside him. DiAngelo jumped in his sleep and Max jerked the curtain back to reveal Minelli emptying the magazine of his pistol into the radio set in the control panel.
There was an instant of electric silence. Then, as Minelli straightened and turned, balancing on the balls of his feet and hefting the gun, Max pointed his own weapon straight at the other man’s belly and demanded, “Who did you call?”
Minelli shrugged. As he looked down at the pistol Max held, his eyes were wary. Lora could see the tension in his fingers as he gripped his own gun.
“You’re going to tell me, one way or another. Better start talking.”
Minelli seemed to hesitate, then sai
d with an assumption of ease, “No harm telling you, I suppose. I called some friends to come and pick us up. Seeing as how your transportation service leaves something to be desired.”
“You told them about the dope, I suppose.” Max sounded almost bored. Lora might have believed he was—if it hadn’t been for the tension evident in the hard muscles of his back through the white sweatstained t-shirt.
“Suppose all you want. I’m not saying anything else.”
Max stared at him. Lora could almost feel the prickles rise on her own neck under the icy ferocity of that look.
“Oh, I think you’ll—” Max began, lifting the pistol with a cold certainty that made Lora’s nerves scream.
“Drop it, Maxwell!” The hoarse command came from the seat just in front of Lora and Tunafish. Both their faces registered shock as DiAngelo, whom they had totally forgotten, rose rather unsteadily to his feet. In his hand he held a pistol, which he had trained on Max. Max, after one arrested look over his shoulder, slowly lowered his gun and then, on DiAngelo’s repeated command, dropped it.
“Kick it over here.” Minelli resumed control, grinning widely from Max to his buddy. “Well, well, well, Maxwell, the shoe’s on the other foot, now, isn’t it? You should’ve been nice while you had the chance. Back up.” Minelli’s voice was brutal as he stepped forward, gun at the ready, forcing Max to move back to where Lora knelt and Tunafish lay.
Lora’s heart thumped painfully in her chest as Max slowly obeyed. Minelli would kill all of them for what lay in that cargo bay, she had not the slightest doubt.
When Max stood beside where Lora and Tunafish were frozen in position, Minelli said to DiAngelo, “Check those two for guns.”
Max sent a single, quick glance down at them. Lora could see a muscle jumping in his jaw. His hands hung loose at his sides, as if he was having to force them not to clench into fists. Then DiAngelo was beside her, his pale blue eyes cold as he reached down to grab her arm and haul her to her feet. Lora shivered and closed her eyes with revulsion as his hands ran over her, slowly and with obvious relish. She thought of herself worrying about him, and wished with more venom than she had known she was capable of that he had died in the crash. The feel of his hands on her made her want to vomit. . . . But finally it was over, and he was stepping away from her and bending over Tunafish while she shuddered.
“Now, boss!” The yell was Tunafish’s, and after that things happened with lightning swiftness.
DiAngelo cursed and fell to the floor, helped by a sudden sweep of Tunafish’s splinted leg. Max dived at Minelli just as his attention was distracted for that split second by Tunafish’s shout and DiAngelo’s fall. The force of Max’s body bore Minelli to the floor and sent the gun flying. While those two wrestled, Tunafish and DiAngelo were grappling for the gun that DiAngelo had dropped. Lora screamed, then screamed again in automatic reaction. None of the men paid her the least attention. But even as she screamed her eyes were on Minelli’s gun. It had skittered across the cabin to come to rest under the rear pair of seats. She darted for it, scrabbling under the seats to get it. When her hand closed for it—gingerly!—she turned back to survey the fray. DiAngelo had the other pistol in his hands now, and Tunafish was forcing him to keep it pointed toward the ceiling. Max and Minelli had death grips on one another’s throats.
“I’ve got a gun,” she called clearly. She might as well not have spoken as the men continued their fight. Hesitating, she looked down at the ugly black weapon in her hand. What did she do now? She wasn’t about to fire the damned thing—she’d undoubtedly hit either everyone or no one. Then she saw DiAngelo lift his foot and kick down hard into Tunafish’s broken leg. Tunafish screamed, DiAngelo snatched at the pistol—and Lora pointed the hated gun skyward and, with a muttered prayer, pulled the trigger.
A deafening blast of gunfire brought all four men’s eyes darting around as the noise made her wince and screw up her eyes. As they saw the gun in her hand—it kept spitting out bullets, and Lora realized that she still had her finger on the trigger—all four men, friends and foes alike, hit the dirt. Bullets tore through the metal fuselage over her head, and one whistled alarmingly close to her ear. She had forgotten about the possibility of ricochets. . . .
“For God’s sake, let up on the trigger, Lora!” As Max’s voice called to her with almost comical dismay, Minelli was on his feet and running toward the hole. Max dived for his legs, but missed, cursing as he hit his shoulder on the metal frame of a seat.
Gun in hand, Lora watched Minelli disappear from sight. There was no way that she was going to purposely shoot anyone, even Minelli, despite Max’s and Tunafish’s frenzied shouts. Seconds later Max was at her side, relieving her of the weapon and turning it on DiAngelo, who quickly subsided. Then it was all over—for the moment. Lora felt her knees quiver, and looked surprised as they slowly buckled beneath her.
XIV
“You all right?” Max hunkered down beside her, keeping a wary eye on DiAngelo while at the same time managing to spare her a glance of concern. His hand just touched her arm—and there it was, the jolt of electricity. Lora shivered. With all that had happened, she had almost forgotten the physical chemistry that ignited between them at the slightest touch. Or hoped that, now that she was no longer precisely his captive, it was a thing of the past. Stockholm Syndrome should no longer apply. . . .
Max felt her shiver and looked down at her, frowning. Lora met his eyes with a dazed look in her own. All her life, she had dreamed of a man who could make her bones turn to mush just by touching her. It was, she supposed, the ultimate female fantasy. But not this man! Please, not this man!
“Lora!”
Something in her expression must have alarmed him, because his hand moved up to her face and he lightly touched her cheek with his fingers. And there it was again, that frisson of pure animal attraction. Lora stared up into those eyes that were blacker than the night, at the harshly carved features and tough masculine mouth, and despaired.
“Boss! Look out!”
Tunafish’s warning shout made Max jerk to attention. The pistol snapped up as his eyes sought DiAngelo, who had taken advantage of that moment of inattention to bolt for the hole. It was already too late. DiAngelo was at the hole, and there was no way that Max could stop him—except shoot. He raised the gun, aiming.
“Max, no!” Lora cried, horrified, and Max hesitated for that crucial split second. Then it was too late.
DiAngelo was gone. Max stared at a panorama of jungle that was all that was visible in the space where DiAngelo had just stood, his expression as unreadable as stone. Then, slowly, he turned his eyes back to Lora as he lowered the gun. The look he gave her was unfathomable. The black eyes were as impenetrable as the jungle itself.
“Cripes, boss, you let him get away!”
Lora was vaguely aware of Tunafish shaking his head in disgust as she stared back at Max. He returned her look for a long moment, unspeaking, then got abruptly to his feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked almost formally, his eyes hooded as he looked down at her where she knelt at his feet.
Lora was taken aback at the cold remoteness of his expression. He was looking at her as if she were a stranger, and one that he didn’t particularly want to get to know. She stared into those unreadable eyes, and slowly nodded.
“I’m fine. It was just—the excitement, I think.” At her words, something flared briefly in his eyes. They burned down into hers for a second, and then he turned abruptly away.
“You shoulda shot him.” Tunafish was still bemoaning DiAngelo’s escape as Max dropped to his knees beside him. “He and that bastard Minelli will be up to God knows what out there. One thing’s sure, they’ll be comin’ after us. And the dope, and the money.”
“I know it.” Max laid what looked like gentle hands on the broken leg. DiAngelo’s kick had knocked loose the makeshift splint. “We’ll have to mount guard over the plane. I don’t want them getting their hands on that stuff. It’s our ticket ou
t of here. Now, shut up for a minute, will you? The boards from those crates will do a lot better job than branches for your leg. I’ll be right back.” He laid a hand on Tunafish’s shoulder, stood up, crossed to the hole, and jumped through it, all without sparing Lora so much as a glance.
She stared after him, then looked at Tunafish. Tunafish shrugged his ignorance of Max’s behavior. Lora was still frowning as she crawled across to Tunafish’s side.
When Max returned, he asked Lora to watch for DiAngelo and Minelli. She stood at the hole looking out over the teeming jungle, secretly thankful not to have to help. She liked Tunafish and she hated to see him in pain. And he was in pain. She heard him groan, and swear, and groan again as Max did what had to be done. When it was over at last, and Tunafish lay sweating profusely, propped up against the curving wall, Lora turned to look at them again. To her surprise, Max pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and offered it to his friend. Tunafish accepted it gratefully, uncapping the lid and taking a long swallow. He then offered it in turn to Lora and Max, both of whom refused, before settling back with a happier expression.
“That sure hit the spot. Where’d you get it?”
“Clemente had it on him.”
Tunafish didn’t reply, but took another quick swallow from the flask. There was a brief silence, then Tunafish said slowly, “Those guys Minelli radioed—mob?”
Max shrugged. “Probably. The arrangements were that a boat would be waiting for them off Puerto Barrios in the Gulf of Honduras. My guess is that he made contact with whoever is on that boat.”
“Mob,” said Tunafish gloomily. “They’ll have an army up here after this stuff. From what you said, it must be worth coming after.”
There was another brief silence. “I imagine Ortega will be along, too. He’ll want his property back. And the feds. They must have known, or guessed, what we were carrying. Seems like they were after us, after all, back there at that airport.”
Wild Orchids Page 17
