by Seton, Cora
“Orphanage,” Ortiz told her. The dark-skinned man spoke in a heavy accent, but his English was flawless. “Last time we came by, there were about forty children living there.”
“What happened to their parents? How did they die?”
“Most of them are still alive.” He shrugged. “The parents send the children here because it’s the only way to keep them alive. The nuns make sure they’re fed, which is more than their families can do.”
Jen’s heart ached. She couldn’t imagine having to give up her child because she couldn’t afford to feed them.
“Can we come back here?” she said softly. “Maybe I can take some pictures of the kids, if the nuns will allow it.”
Jamie lightly squeezed her arm. “We’ll see. We might be able to stop on our way back.”
Her gaze moved back to the window, studying the unevenly paved streets and narrow alleyways that made up the town. The convoy finally came to a stop in front of a single-story concrete building with white stucco walls and a sagging tin roof—the sole medical clinic in San Cortés. Seeing the tiny structure made Jen think of San Diego General Hospital, with its endless wings and clean, winding corridors. Even her GP’s office was ten times the size of this meager clinic.
She got out of the Humvee and opened her camera bag, sliding her Nikon SLR out of its case as the soldiers set up a perimeter around the clinic and Global Aid van. She hadn’t spent much time with any of the relief workers, but they seemed like pleasant, dedicated people, and she knew they worked hard to bring food and medicine to the region.
Jamie stuck close to her as she snapped photographs. The exterior of the clinic. The GA employees carting wooden boxes inside. The cracked sidewalks and nearby buildings glowing in the early morning sun.
It wasn’t long before she’d run out of material, and she turned to Jamie hopefully. “Can we walk around?” She glanced at the end of the street, where the buildings seemed even more ramshackle and neglected.
“One sec. Let me talk to the sarge.” Jamie left her by the Humvee and went over to the tall, stone-faced marine standing at the clinic’s entrance. As Jen watched, the men exchanged a few words, and then Jamie strode back to her, muttering something into his radio before clipping it onto his utility belt.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes. Sarge doesn’t want us to ‘dillydally’.” He grinned. “His words, not mine.”
She grinned back. “Don’t worry, I promise not to dillydally.”
They fell into step with each other, heading toward the end of the narrow street. Now that the sun was out, the temperature was steadily rising, and the humidity clinging to the air brought beads of sweat to Jen’s forehead. The combat vest was pasted to her chest like Saran Wrap. She could feel the moisture sliding down the valley of her breasts, but she didn’t dare ask to take the vest off. She focused on taking pictures instead, while Jamie stood vigilantly by her side, his sharp gaze sweeping the area as she stopped to adjust the shutter speed on her camera.
A few minutes later, they neared a cement building with a gaping hole in its facade. The front wall had almost entirely collapsed, and the balmy breeze caused white dust to rise from the chunks of cement littering the ground.
“What happened here?” she said warily.
“Drug raid,” Jamie explained. “One of the cartels was using this place to cut cocaine and distribute it from here to the local dealers. The operation took a huge hit because of that bust.” He shrugged. “The Honduran officials keep promising to rebuild this stretch of town, but resources are scarce.”
“Can we go inside?” Jen asked.
“Yes, but let’s make it quick.”
She cautiously approached the structure and snapped a few shots. The front door was completely gone, so she and Jamie entered the building through the massive hole left by the explosives that had been used to blow up the building. They stepped over broken pieces of concrete, shards of glass crunching beneath their boots.
The stench hit her hard. The place must have been a butcher’s shop at one point, and the huge counter across the room was covered with spoiled meat that stank to high heaven. She assumed the drug operation had been based in the rear, because the back wall had been blown open as well.
She ignored the rotting odor that was making her eyes water and focused on getting the shots she needed, paying close attention to the stains on the far wall. Brownish, caked onto the white plaster—blood. Someone had died here.
Jamie stayed by the door and monitored the street as Jen ventured deeper inside. The back room offered no windows, just a dark space that required she use her flash. In between pops of light, she made out long metal tables and rusty hooks dangling from the ceiling, and she thanked God there were no animal carcasses hanging there.
“Got everything you need?” Jamie asked when she walked out.
She nodded. “I doubt I got anything usable, but we’ll see.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Jen followed him outside, her gaze taking in every detail as they made their way back. She took several close-ups of the gang logos etched on the sides of the derelict buildings, then stopped in an alley overflowing with garbage, debris, and swarms of black flies, and captured the depressing scene.
Jamie patiently waited for her, but he looked relieved when she finally slung her camera strap around her neck. “We really need to go, Jen.”
“I know. I’m all done,” she assured him, quickly hurrying back to his side.
They were fifty yards from the clinic when the first gunshot exploded in the air.
Chapter Seven
‡
Screams.
Screams and shouts and deafening blasts of rapid gunfire pierced the air, making Jen’s ears ring like a carnival game. Her gaze flew to the vehicles at the end of the street, and she watched in horror as dozens of men swarmed the Humvees. No, not men. Most of them were boys. Young and armed, a blur of bandanas and tattoos and automatic weapons.
She’d barely registered what she was seeing when an explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet. The force of it sent her flying backward into a hard surface—Jamie. He was behind her. No, in front of her now, shouting over the pandemonium.
“Keep your head down!”
The next thing she knew, he was dragging her forward. Oh God—he was taking her toward the shooting?
No. No, she realized in relief when Jamie zigzagged a frantic path toward a narrow opening up ahead.
Black smoke obstructed her vision, clogged her lungs, and she blinked wildly as she ran after Jamie. Her heart stopped when she made out blurry images and shapes, bodies falling to the ground, orange flames devouring one of the Humvees.
It was all happening so fast, and yet time had seemed to slow. Jen’s pulse shrieked in her ears, but nowhere near loud enough to muffle the machine gun fire. The sharp commands and the screams of anguish and the hiss of flames.
Pain shot through her arm as Jamie practically yanked it out of its socket trying to propel her forward. She kept her head down just as he’d ordered, but she could see the submachine gun in his hand, a glint of black steel in the sunshine.
“Move,” Jamie said urgently.
Jen ran so fast her lungs burned, panting hard as they neared the alleyway to their left. The acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder filled her nostrils, but the adrenaline pounding in her blood had numbed her senses. Her brain had shut down, arms and legs moving as if on instinct and not through any conscious choice of her own.
Someone was shouting in Spanish. Were they shouting at them? Her peripheral vision caught the upward swing of Jamie’s weapon, and horror flooded her body when she heard him fire.
The crack of the gun was so close to her head that it felt like her eardrum had burst. She was no stranger to gunfire—she’d been to the range with her brother, with Cash, but they wore noise-canceling earmuffs there. Here, it was impossible to block out the noise, and the shrill whining in her ears rivaled the thunderous pounding of her heart.
They were two steps from the alley when another gunshot rocked the air, and Jamie suddenly went staggering forward.
Jen screamed as her protector doubled over, his weapon clattering to the dirty pavement. He’d been hit. She didn’t know where or how bad, but to her astonishment, it barely slowed him down. He grabbed the fallen machine gun and plowed forward, dragging her deep into the alley, all the way to its end.
They stumbled into a darkened stoop, a small concrete nook in front of a narrow metal door. Jamie made a wild grab for the door handle, cursing when he found it locked.
Sticky fear coated Jen’s throat when she noticed the red stain on his fatigues, right beneath his vest and just above his belt. “Oh my God,” she blurted out. “You were shot.”
His finger instantly flew to his lips, a signal to stay quiet. But there was no mistaking the hazy look in his eyes, the visible agony as he slapped a hand over his lower right side.
“Let me look at it.” Jen lowered her voice to a whisper as she frantically shoved Jamie’s hand away to assess the damage.
She lifted the bottom of his vest and got lightheaded when she saw the blood pouring out of the round hole left by the bullet that had pierced his flesh. She breathed through the rush of dizziness and replaced his hand with both of hers, applying pressure to the wound.
The rat-a-tat of gunfire continued to roar from the street beyond them. It sounded like an entire army was out there. Footsteps pounded the pavement, shouts booming all around them. The fact that the shouts were in Spanish…it didn’t bode well for the American marines, and the terrifying thought made her sick to her stomach. Ortiz and his men spoke Spanish, too, she reminded herself. They could still be alive.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about the Humvee in flames, the bodies she’d seen dropping to the ground.
Oh God. What if the mara members found her and Jamie? What if they took them hostage?
She choked back the panic. She couldn’t think about that now. Jamie was hurt, damn it. And Jen knew that a gunshot wound to the abdomen could be life threatening, especially if the bullet had hit any major organs.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”
But his face was so damn pale and he was swaying on his feet, telling her that he was anything but okay.
Jen unsnapped her vest and tore it off, eliciting a horrified hiss from Jamie. “Keep it on!”
“I will. I am,” she promised. She quickly stripped off her tank top, put the vest back on, then voiced a sharp command. “Sit down. Now.”
He tried to protest, but his body swayed harder, and suddenly he sagged to the ground, falling onto his back with a tortured groan. Jen dropped to her knees, balled up her tank top, and pressed it to the bleeding wound at his side. She needed to assess the damage. Needed to see if the bullet was still lodged inside him.
Needed to get help.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ve had emergency aid training, and my mom is a nurse. You’re going to be okay, Jamie.”
Her hands were already stained red from the blood seeping from his body, and she desperately tried to think back to what her mother had told her about abdominal wounds. They didn’t always bleed out fast, not like a hit to the femoral artery. It could take him hours to…die—God, she couldn’t even think about that right now—and if the bullet hadn’t done any internal damage, his chances of survival were even greater.
She applied pressure with one hand and slid the other underneath him to search for an exit wound. Her fingers were slippery with his blood as she ran them over his hot flesh, and then she breathed in relief. “It’s a through and through,” she told him. And the blood was bright red rather than dark, which told her his liver hadn’t been hit. If they could just get some help—and fast—he might be able to make it.
No, not might. He would make it. She would make sure of it.
“Where’s your radio?” she asked. “We need to call for help.”
Jamie’s arm trembled as he tried to reach for his belt. His limb was like a floppy spaghetti noodle, hardly capable of lifting a feather, let alone a radio.
But there was no radio to lift—Jen realized that before Jamie’s hand even found his belt.
The radio was gone.
“Dropped…it…” he groaned in pain, “…back there.”
Her heartbeat stopped in its tracks before careening with panic.
Shit.
Fucking shit.
And it suddenly occurred to her that the gunfire had ceased.
No more gunshots. No more explosions. But any relief she would’ve felt vanished in the smoke floating through the alley, because voices were still shouting—and she didn’t recognize a single one. Not Ortiz. Not Sanchez the gruff private, or the flirtatious Castillo, or any of the men in the local squad. No marines, either.
If any of them had survived, if they’d taken out the gang members, they would be combing the streets looking for her and Jamie right now. Not chatting amongst themselves on the sidewalk.
She was too terrified to peek out from their alcove, but she had a feeling there was no point in even looking. The good guys were dead, and the notion left her numb, cold.
And Jamie’s blood was soaking through her shirt.
“We need to call for help,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let you die here like this.”
His eyelids fluttered as if they could no longer support their own flimsy weight. He was losing blood. Getting weaker.
If she could just find the radio, though… He would’ve had to have dropped it right after he’d been shot, which meant it was somewhere near the entrance of the alley.
But beyond the alley were thirty armed gang members who probably worked for a drug cartel. Who’d blown up a military Humvee and murdered a dozen people just to rob a supply van, and who wouldn’t think twice about kidnapping—or killing—an American photographer and an injured marine.
Jen bit the inside of her cheek so hard that blood filled her mouth. It was all she could taste. All she could smell. Each time she inhaled, the coppery odor clogged her nose.
“I’m going to get the radio.”
Jamie’s eyes flew open. “No,” he croaked. “No. I’ll…do it.”
He tried to move, and an anguished noise left his lips.
“Don’t move,” she ordered. “You’ll aggravate the wound.” She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, but that only made it worse. Blood now stained her face, and the metallic scent grew stronger.
She grabbed Jamie’s hands and brought them to his abdomen, pressing them against the blood-soaked shirt. “Hold this tight, you hear me? And don’t you dare pass out. You’re not going to die today, Private. Got it?”
A faint smile tugged on his lips, followed by a weak protest. “You can’t…go out there, Jen. Too…risky.”
“I have no choice.” She arched a brow. “You’re not exactly in any position to do it.”
She was trying to put on a brave front, but her legs shook uncontrollably as she stood up. They needed that radio, and she was the only one who could get it.
As her heart drummed a frantic beat in her chest, she crept toward the edge of the stoop, took a breath, then poked her head out. A fraction of an inch, just far enough to peer into the alley. To her relief, it was dark and deserted.
But voices continued to drift from the direction of the clinic.
Had anyone seen her and Jamie run into the alley? She bit her bottom lip. One person must have for sure—the gang member who’d fired at them.
She glanced at the wounded marine. “What happened to the guy who shot you?”
“Dead.”
“Are you sure?”
A note of pride rippled through his wobbly voice. “Positive. Head…shot.”
“Did anyone else see us?”
“Don’t…think so.”
She swallowed, thinking it over. Chances were, nobody was looking for them. The maras w
ere probably busy reveling in their spoils. Plundering the truck and slapping each other’s backs to celebrate a killing spree well done.
Jen’s breath blew out in an unsteady rush. “I’m getting the radio, and then I’m coming right back. I promise.”
God, she prayed it was a promise she’d be able to keep.
You can do this.
She inhaled slowly, then peeked out again, twisting her head toward the alley’s entrance. Her gaze roamed the pavement in a desperate search—and then she saw it. A black rectangle, the silver trim of the radio’s screen winking on the pavement.
Twenty feet. It was only twenty feet away.
“I see it,” she whispered. “It’s not that far.”
“Jen…no…”
Jamie’s shaky objection went unanswered. She was too busy weighing her options. She could creep out, maybe crawl or shimmy on her stomach. It was the quieter choice, but it would take a while to reach the radio, leaving her exposed for longer than she was comfortable with. The alternative was to run. Run like hell and risk making a noise, but at least she’d get there faster.
After a beat of hesitation, option number two won out.
Wiping her damp palms on her cargo pants, she took a step forward. Then another. When nobody came hurtling around the corner, she broke out in a run.
Her heart jammed in her throat as she flew toward the radio. She felt like she was back in high school doing track and field again.
She’d sucked at track and field.
Oh God. The gang was going to catch her and shoot her the way they’d shot everyone el—
Her fingers collided with sturdy plastic, and relief and triumph exploded inside her like fireworks. She grabbed the radio and spun around, sprinting back to the stoop like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Brown eyes snapped up at her when she came barreling back, and she could see Jamie’s entire body sag with relief.
“See,” she whispered. “I told you I’d be back.”
“Good…work…” Despite his ashen cheeks, humor creased his face. “Soldier.”
She used one hand to resume applying pressure on his gut, and handed him the radio with the other. “I don’t know how to use this. You’ll have to show me.”
