by Jill Barnett
Huddled around the open bow of the boat like birds to bread crumbs stood a group of armed rebels. They soon parted to give Sam a glimpse of Colonel Luna standing over his precious pink cargo—the Lollipop. She sat on a narrow bench on the foredeck next to a mooring winch. From her frantic gestures and Luna’s impatient tapping of his bolo knife against his boot, Sam gathered they were having some kind of argument.
He glanced past the dock to a large clearing, where five more armed guards stood watching the river. From their perch high above the riverbank, they could watch the whole inlet, assuring Luna and the boat of protection and ruining Sam’s chance of making his way downstream.
The movements on the dock told Sam that the boat was about to cast off. The engine geared into a constant chugging, and the dockmen bent over the cleats, uncoiling the lines that held the trawler. Sam had to think fast.
There was no time to find a log or driftwood branch to hide him from the armed patrol. The boat backed up slowly, building up steam. Sam inhaled long, slow breaths that filled his lungs with oxygen and put a purgatory of pressure on his battered ribs. One last breath and he dove deep, hoping to make it to the boat before it could reverse engines and head downstream.
He swam underwater, pulling with all his strength, thankful that some anonymous male ancestor had given him the gift of a big frame and a strong upper body. At this moment, he called on every bit of power and strength in that torso. His lungs burned from holding an eternal breath. The vibrations of the engine drew him in the right direction, closer and closer until he could feel the water around him ripple.
As fast as a rifle shot the sound died. Then metal scraped metal and the engine clunked. There was nothing but silence. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, his numb legs kicked on and one arm pulled, then the other, dragging the drawing weight of his clothed body through the water with a stubborn determination earned in the Chicago slums.
Come on . . . come on, swim, you bruised bastard, swim.
A clank echoed through the water less than two feet from him. Water suddenly rushed around him with a push of current. Then with a loud, squealing scrape of metal the engine kicked in.
Sam surfaced just in time to grip a portside tow handle by the trawler’s rudder, a good five feet from the propeller blade. His hands ached, but he held fast, fighting the wake as the boat headed downstream.
She’d like to died, but hung her head over the right side of the boat and vomited instead. From somewhere on her left, the colonel swore in Spanish. She stared at the blurred river water and concentrated on breathing. Then it dawned on her that swearwords sounded exactly alike in any language. It was the disgusted male tone that gave them away.
She’d tried to tell the man that she couldn’t take the boat ride well. He didn’t believe her. She gagged some more. Bet he does now, she thought, remembering how they’d cut the ropes from her bound hands so she could hold onto the rail while she hung her head over the side. The boat floated along, rocking slightly from side to side, side to side . . .
Her head swain, chills raced up her back and over her arms, and her stomach lurched in counterpoint to the boat. She finally sat up, raising one limp hand to her damp forehead. The men stared at her in horror.
“Could I have a wet rag, please?” She lolled back against the rail. Her whole body felt like peach jelly.
The colonel ordered a soldier to find something, then turned his back on her. She wiped away the tears that streamed down her hot cheeks. Her eyes always teared when she threw up. The boat moved as they met a swifter current, and she swallowed air and leaned back over the side, ready to get sick again.
Concentration came to her rescue and she managed to control her weak stomach. Soon she could feel someone’s stare. She pushed up from the rail, opened her eyes, and turned ever so slowly. The soldier had returned and held out a damp piece of cloth. She plastered it over her clammy forehead and collapsed back on the hard bench, moaning as her stomach protested those fast movements. The boat swayed again and again. She flipped the cloth over to stop her queasy chills. Moans slipped past her lips with each motion of the boat. She couldn’t stop them, besides which moaning made her feel better.
Each second spent on the water was an hour, each minute seemed like a day. Her stomach lurched again, sending her upright with her head over the side. And as she hung there, the wet rag gripped like a missal in her hand, she prayed that they would get to that bay, and soon.
Sam gripped the tow handle of the rebel trawler and kicked at the wake. They were headed for Colorido Bay, where the exchange would take place. Once near the bay, Sam could let go of the boat and swim to shore where he’d have to cut through four days’ worth of jungle to get to Bonifacio’s camp. The boat ride would shave almost two days off his journey back. It had been a stroke of luck, being able to let the trawler haul him downstream.
Occasionally, over the steam engine’s sputter, he could hear the rebel soldiers talking from the deck high above him. He was safe, chest high in the water and hidden from the deck view by the breadth of the trawler’s stern. The steam engine sputtered, and Sam lay back in the water, letting it lap at his sore muscles.
Something popped, then whistled.
By instinct Sam ducked. If there was one thing he knew as well as his own name it was the popping sound of gunfire.
He turned toward the north bank, where a group of Spanish soldiers fired on the rebels. It was an ambush.
Gripping the tow handle, he watched for a safe place to let go and make his way toward the bank. The rebels returned the gunfire, but men dropped from the deck into the water like clay pigeons. Four barrels splashed near him along with one of the wounded rebels.
He let go of the boat and treaded water, using a barrel for cover. Slowly he guided the barrel toward shore. A few minutes later he reached the bamboo reed and managed to crawl up the bank where he hid in a cluster of fire bushes.
The boat chugged along. Then a round of bullets hit the engine, sounding like target practice on tin cans. The engine sputtered and died. There were still six rebels on the deck, Luna being one of them, and they returned the Spanish fire. Sam watched a moment, then caught a pink flash crawling between some bullet-riddled crates. He swore. First she scurried left. A bullet slammed into the crate next to her, sending her scuttling back to the far crate with all the stealth of a blind pig.
Lollie LaRue was going to get herself shot.
Sam shook his wet head in disgust. All the woman had to do was stay there. The Spanish wouldn’t keep her once they found out she was Luna’s prisoner. The Spanish watched their relationship with the United States; they didn’t need any more diplomatic trouble. The situation between the two nations was already too close to exploding into trouble.
Now if Eulalie, an American, were found with him, also an American and a mercenary, that would be another story. The Spanish had been beating through the jungles, weeding out as many guerrillas and mercenaries as they could, and they knew of his reputation and who hired him.
A scream pierced the air. He knew that sound only too well and turned toward it. The pink twit cannonballed into the water, arms reaching for the nearest barrel. She missed it.
Sam groaned.
She sank like granite.
Without a thought, Sam slid back into the river. He pushed the barrel across and dove, looking for her in the murky brown mud of the river. He swam deep, dodging Mauser bullets from the Spanish rifles. They’d seen her. He amended that: they’d heard her. The king of Spain had probably heard her.
And her mouth was what saved her now.
A dull gurgle sounded from his right. He turned and saw her. Blue eyes open and frantic, her mouth open and screaming. He grabbed her hair and yanked her toward the surface, heading straight for a barrel. He’d never known a person could scream underwater. They broke the surface, and she coughed and gasped. He tried to cover her mouth to quiet her. She took in her air and turned around, linking her arm around his neck and holding on for
all she was worth.
“Thank you, thank you,” she mumbled around a cough.
They made it to the bank, and Sam crawled out first, then dragged Lollie up and into the bushes. She kept moaning and groaning. Too loud.
“Shut up or you’re going to get us killed.
She did clam up, but too late. A Mauser bullet whizzed over his head, lodging in a nearby tree with a dull thud. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes grew wide.
Sam knew that look. He lunged at her. Three more bullets whizzed past them.
Naturally she screamed.
Chapter 8
Lollie couldn’t talk around the gag. But she tried, until she realized that he would just continue to ignore her. All he did was tighten his grip on her wrist and drag her through the jungle even faster.
She glanced behind her. There was no one there. Surely they were safe now, although they hadn’t been earlier.
Just after she’d screamed at the gunshots that had whizzed past them, a Spanish soldier had come charging out of a stand of trees. He’d headed straight for Sam. She had cowered in the bushes, frozen with fear. She hated guns.
Sam had saved them, though, knocking the soldier out, then dragging him into the bushes. He’d taken the man’s rifle, pistol, knife, pack, and canteen before he pulled her a few yards away, forcing her to the ground with a knee in her back. For a brief instant she questioned whether he’d saved her only to turn around and kill her. But that made no sense at all. The next thing she knew, he’d gagged her with a piece of her own wet petticoat.
She’d tried over and over to pull the gag off, but it was knotted too tight, the damp cloth making it nigh on impossible to loosen. And she only had one hand. Sam had a death grip on the other.
He hauled her through a patch of sharp bamboo, never once slowing down, and she knew if she did, as she’d tried to earlier, he’d just jerk her even harder through the thickest spots of jungle growth or mud. With the suddenness of a jackrabbit, he changed directions, veering sharply to the left. A few minutes later he pulled her up some mossy rocks to a hidden ledge. He pinned her face down with a massive arm and hard leg. Her throat ached and burned from exertion.
“One noise, one sound out of you, and we’re dead,” he whispered in her ear.
At those words her desire to talk disappeared. They lay there, face down, his heartbeat pounding like thunder against her back. The vibration felt so strong and loud she said a brief silent prayer that the Spanish wouldn’t hear it.
Her own heart beat at the same speed. His breath, hotter and damper than the air around them, brushed her ear. The sensation sent a rush of odd chills through her. This place was hot, humid, dank, not a place for gooseflesh. Again his breath hit her ear, and again she felt the chills. She shivered. His breath stopped. She could feel his gaze on the back of her head as sure as if she were staring at him instead of at the brown-gray stone of the ledge. The heat from that look chased away those odd chills. But the moment passed and soon they both breathed normally again, as normally as two people could when they were an instant away from death.
Sweat seeped from her skin, mingling with the odor of murky river water and the gamy scent of their bodies, male and female, too long unwashed. But dulling that musk was the odd smell of the jungle—the tinge of strong wet earth, a hint of exotic flowers, and green. In the deep jungle, even the green of the plants smelled. Oddly enough, it smelled clean.
A sound caught her attention. She listened closely, holding her breath. Knives splintered bamboo. She stiffened. Leaves and bushes rustled. His body pressed down. A dull squish of boots slogged in the mud. The soldiers were so close she could hear them whisper, and it scared her held breath right past her gag. They stood right below the ledge, so close she’d have sworn they were taking aim.
Her lungs screamed for air, so she fought hard to breathe slowly, sure that they could hear her very breath.
There was a shout.
Lollie closed her eyes tightly, fighting the urge to scream, waiting for the bullet.
Forced human silence weighted the air.
They both stopped breathing.
The screech of a bird high in the trees cracked the quiet. Whispering seeped into the air. Leaves crackled, plants rustled, both signaling the frantic sound of men running—away.
She sagged with relief, letting her forehead fall on her hands. She breathed again. So did Sam. They lay there for the longest time, not moving, only breathing, and still listening for the absolute silence that proved the soldiers were gone.
But each second brought her attention away from sound. She was aware now of Sam’s weight, the hard muscles that held her still, aware that the dampness of their clothes was no shield against his solid muscle and her softness. Their bodies were as hot as steam from a vat. She swallowed, yearning to move her head—an intense need she could barely control. For some inexplicable reason she wanted to see Sam’s face, see his look.
Then his weight shifted and he knelt next to her. His hands closed over her shoulders, and he pulled her to her knees before him. Her wish was granted. His gaze met hers. After wishing for this barely a minute before, it was the strangest thing. She couldn’t see clearly. His features were blurred. She averted her eyes, only then realizing there were tears spilling from them. They were tears of fear, a result of the danger she’d just experienced and the fear of some odd link to this hard man.
His hand touched her head, streaking a trail of fire across her clammy skin, then sliding through her wet hair, the pads of his fingers burning every inch they touched. She waited, shaking inside from a mixture of emotions she’d never before felt. His hands stopped at the knot of the gag. He untied it and it fell unnoticed to her lap.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden touch of air on the chafed corners of her mouth. They burned. Closing her eyes, she willed away the soreness, finally opened them when she felt a soothing cool touch dab at one burning corner of her mouth.
“Press this against it.” He doused the gag with fresh water from the canteen and handed it to her. He recapped the canteen.
She continued to stare at him, trying to understand what she felt. After a confusing moment she gave up.
He hooked the canteen back on his belt, adjusted the rifle strap over the shoulder, then looked up. “Let’s go.”
With that command, he jumped down from the ledge and held his hands up to help her. She glanced at the rag, wondering what to do with it.
“Come on, let’s go!”
She sat down on the ledge and barely got situated before his large hands gripped her waist and lifted her off the rock. She braced her hands on his shoulders, the gag still clutched in one tight fist. He set her on the ground, gently for a change, and glanced at the rag. The devil grinned.
She could tell exactly what he was thinking. He thought gagging her was funny. She wanted to throw the thing at him, but didn’t. She intended to keep it, so he couldn’t use it on her again. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of gagging her. She wouldn’t scream. At least she’d try not to.
“We’ll go west,” he told her, readjusting his pack. She moved on until his swearing stopped her.
“I said west.” He grabbed her arm and jerked in another direction.
She looked up at the sun but couldn’t see it for the dense growth. “That was west,” she argued.
“South.”
“I thought it was west.”
“That’s what I get for asking you to think,” he said .
“Look.” She stopped and rammed her hands onto her hips. “You told me to go west. I went in the direction I thought was west. If you have a problem with that, then just point next time.”
His gaze locked on her right hand; the gag was still clutched in her fist. She quickly crammed the wet rag down the front of her gown. His gaze locked on her chest. She crossed her arms and stared back until he finally shrugged and moved past her. She watched him for a minute, deciding if she even wanted to follow him. She looked
around her at the dense dark jungle with its odd sounds and rustlings. Something crackled from her left. A trilling sound echoed from overhead. She looked up. A black and red snake slithered on a branch above her head.
She ran to catch up with Sam, looking over her shoulder and above her every step of the way. She finally managed to get about five feet behind him.
“Get the lead out!” he shouted over his shoulder, holding back a thick palm frond and gesturing to her to precede him. She did, and he let go of the branch. It whacked her in the backside.
She stopped. He walked right past her, and she scowled at his back, then scurried along, her heels catching on an occasional ground vine. He moved fast and was well ahead of her again. She thought she heard something. “Sam!” She scurried to catch up with him. “Sam!”
He stopped. “What?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That rattling sound.”
“Yeah. I thought it was your head.” He turned and started walking again.
She heard it again and looked up. A huge frog with a bright red-orange head looked down at her, blew out its cheeks, rattled, and flew to another tree. A flying frog? She ran to catch up with Sam again.
Finally, after long minutes of silence, she asked, “Where are we all going?” She stumbled, grabbed a branch, and almost fell.
“Back to the river.”
She worked her hand free of the sticky leaves. “Why?” He hacked at a thick bush and grunted something that sounded like “Because I’m a damn fool.”
“I didn’t hear you,” she said, out of breath from running to catch up with him. In desperation, she grabbed hold of his belt, figuring it was the only way she’d be able to keep up.
“Where are we going?” she repeated.
