by Liz Johnson
Suddenly she realized what was going on. Will’s awkwardness with the language was entirely an act. It was all for show, so he could listen in on what the guards were saying without them realizing he understood every word.
It was a smart tactic. But like everything else that had happened since his arrival the previous day, it threw her for a loop.
Her pulse kicked into high gear. She was supposed to pretend she didn’t know him. She had to act as if she’d never seen him before. She needed everyone else in the compound to believe that Will Gumble hadn’t been the only person keeping her sane when her father had deployed, for the millionth time, during her sophomore year, and she’d been left again with her great-aunt.
That was the same year they’d both been in the high school drama team’s production of My Fair Lady. Maybe Will didn’t remember that she’d been dropped from the program for missing cues and flubbing lines.
She couldn’t do this. She was going to mess it up and get them both killed.
Sweat peppered her palms, and she wiped them against her pants beneath the canvas chemistry apron.
“It’s all right.”
Will’s face was so calm, his smile so easy, she could almost believe they weren’t in any real danger. Until she glanced past him toward the two men standing watch at the door. “How can you say that?”
“Because we’re in this together.”
She jumped at the implied camaraderie. Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe him, but it wasn’t quite that easy. They’d been together when her father, then a commander, had deployed. They’d been together the summer she’d spent praying her mother would come back. They’d been together when her great-aunt had taken a nasty fall and broken her hip. But when Sal offered her a promise ring, Will had flat-out disappeared. Ten years of silence, and she was supposed to trust him again?
She glanced toward the door as Manuel’s voice grew animated and he gestured wildly to his friend, their attention clearly not on their charges. Manuel was probably still thinking about his lunch.
Whether he could read the doubt on her face or sense the tension in her shaking fists, Will’s smile dipped. “Why don’t you give me a tour of the lab? What are you working on?” He inclined his head toward her beaker, sounding sincerely interested.
“Boiling some water.” Oh, why had she said that? What if the guards overheard? Her chest tightened, a hiccup popping out before she could stop it. When her stomach pinched in nervous knots, she always ended up with the hiccups. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that the hiccups would stop.
Will took a step, drawing close enough that his heat tickled her arms, and she let out another hiccup.
He was not helping the situation.
“Aye! Work!” Manuel yelled, his gun pointing toward the ceiling above their heads. He spit out a string of Spanish before jerking his head back to his friend.
Will nodded toward the black supply cabinet in the rear of the room. “Maybe you should show me around.”
*
Will peered over Jess’s shoulder into the dim confines of the locker along the back wall. Rows of glass beakers, plastic tubing and other basic chemistry items lined the shelves. But even he could tell the lab as a whole was ill equipped to handle the kind of science that Jess had been doing back in San Diego. It was probably more accustomed to housing meth mixers than biological weapons.
A refrigerated locker sat on the counter right next to the cupboard. Its sides were stainless steel, but the door on top was made of a clear Plexiglas. And a three-inch padlock kept the curious from opening it.
“That’s it.” She pointed toward the top of the fridge and a small black cube inside that boasted a yellow biohazard sticker. The lid was locked in place with four clamps, maintaining the airtight seal. The whole thing wasn’t much bigger than his fist, but the way she gave it a wide berth suggested its size didn’t have a direct correlation to its power.
“That’s the toxin?”
“Morsyni.” Her tone carried no small amount of reverence and a slight quiver of fear.
He caught her gaze and held it, dropping his voice low. “What is it? What exactly can it do?”
The muscles at her throat constricted as a flicker passed through her eyes. “What’s in that case is enough to kill every person in San Diego and the rest of California. And we’re not talking about an easy death.”
As his stomach clenched, he shot a look at the guards to make sure they were still ignoring them. “How bad?”
“You’ve heard of botulism?”
He nodded. “Sure. It causes trouble breathing and paralysis.”
“Usually. And it can also result in severe internal distress. Its root is the botulinum toxin, which causes nerve damage.”
He pointed at the black box. “Is that what’s in there?”
Jess shook her head, her long, dark ponytail swishing over her shoulders. “The effects of the Morsyni toxin are sometimes called botulism two point oh.”
“So if it’s released, it’ll kill everyone in the area.”
“An ugly, painful death.” She finally glanced away, dropping her gaze to her clasped hands. “For all of us.”
He sucked in the suddenly thick air. It had been humid all morning, but now he felt as if he was trying to catch a deep breath at the bottom of a pool.
The two men at the door grew louder, an argument erupting between them about who was going to go get lunch first. Sergio, the one who had been shoving Will around the compound, yanked on the door handle and marched past Manuel, who stuck his boot out, tripping his comrade. Manuel received a hard knock on the leg in retaliation.
As the men tussled, Will slowly stepped in front of Jess, blocking their view of her. She pressed a palm to his arm and whispered against his back, “What’s going on?”
Over his shoulder he replied in an equally low tone, “They’re both hungry. Best to look busy and stay out of their line of sight. One of them is going to lose this fight, and he won’t be happy about it.”
Jess nodded, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and picking up metal tongs. Her movements were stilted and jerky, but productive, as she emptied and cleaned the beaker she’d been boiling water in.
While she worked and the guards continued to argue, Will slipped silently along the back wall, his hands roaming over the uneven cinder blocks. Just to the left of the supply cabinet, a dingy, yellowed window overlooked the security wall, sparks of sunlight reflecting off of the jagged edges of green and brown glass standing sentry along its top.
With a quick survey around the edges of the window, he confirmed that despite its age and color, it appeared solid. Unfortunately, he couldn’t jump onto the counter to get a closer look. At least not right that moment.
The only other window in the room was a rectangle even with the top of the door on the front wall. It contained a sputtering air conditioner, which worked about as well as a drop of water fighting a wildfire. It couldn’t possibly keep up with the jungle’s humidity, but at least the limited natural light in the building also blocked most of the force of the sun.
The window along the back wall was the only one that could possibly be useful for an escape. Or a breakin. But given the containment storage it required, most likely the toxin was going to have to come with them through the rusty metal door or be left behind.
And Jess had made it clear that the latter wasn’t an option.
Manuel and Sergio’s row reached its apex, and Will glanced at Jess, whose eyes were wide in her pale face. Checking to make sure that the guards were still not paying attention, he sidled up to her, rolling up his white shirtsleeves before slipping one of the black aprons off the hook on the wall, pulling it over his head and tying it into place on top of his wrinkled button-up.
“They’ve moved on from lunch. Now they’re arguing about which one will have the more important role in something that’s happening in a week.”
“Seriously?” The tension that
wrinkled her forehead grew tighter. “What’s going to happen?”
He began to answer, but before he could speak the commotion suddenly and abruptly ceased, leaving the air thick with only the choked coughs coming from the air-conditioning unit. Will slammed his mouth closed and slipped Jess behind him as a third man joined the guards. Manuel sucked in his stomach and pushed out his chest, his arms holding his M6 at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Sergio snapped to attention, too—though his presentation wasn’t quite as smooth.
The stranger was a short man with slicked-back hair and a long mustache that curled over his upper lip. He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes sweeping over the men, who clearly reported to him.
“El Jefe,” Manuel said.
The boss. This man was either the kingpin or someone important enough to speak in the cartel leader’s stead.
Sergio didn’t address El Jefe, but his eyes dropped to the rough cement floor, his grip on his weapon tightening until his fingers turned white. The boss clearly commanded respect, and he didn’t bother with more than a glance in Will and Jess’s direction.
“Cuando va a estar listo?” The mustache flipped toward the back of the lab, toward them.
Manuel mumbled something that Will couldn’t make out, and a fist tightened at the back of his shirt as Jess twisted the fabric and leaned into him. She didn’t have to ask her question for him to know that she wanted him to translate. But she was going to have to wait. He couldn’t afford to reveal that he understood everything they were saying.
Not yet, anyway.
The boss growled in response to Manuel’s answer, pressing fingers like round sausages into his hips at his belt. Then he let loose a stream of curses intermingled with enough information to set Will’s heart beating faster than a chopper blade. “Siete días. Entiendes?”
Then he stomped away, leaving Sergio and Manuel to return to their bitter words, angry glares and childish fighting.
“What’s going on?”
Will felt more than heard Jess’s words, and turned back to her, his arms and legs already beginning to tingle with pent-up energy.
“That man is in charge while Juan Carlos, the kingpin, is away. But Juan Carlos is coming back, and when he does, they’re going to release the toxin at a party at a nearby cartel.”
Jess’s eyes grew wide again, and she gasped, biting down on the sound to keep from alerting their guards. “When will he be here?”
“Seven days.” Will leaned down until they were eye to eye, and whispered, “We—and the toxin—have to be out of here in six.”
FOUR
Jess jumped, instantly alert, at the two quick taps on her window. It was Will’s sign that the sun was about to rise, and he had to get back to his own cell.
Rolling from her bed, she stumbled to the wall below the windowpane and stretched to respond with three raps of her own. One more knock from him signaled his farewell.
She stifled a yawn as she plopped back down onto the lumpy mattress, ignoring the way the springs below it poked through the tattered fabric. She had been given the luxury of only a single blanket, and 600-thread-count sheets seemed a dream from another lifetime. Still, she’d never felt more rested.
Maybe it was just the comparison to every other morning since she’d been abducted, but five whole hours of uninterrupted sleep felt positively decadent.
She was tempted to lie back down, but instead stood and wandered toward the bathroom. After splashing cold water on her face and combing her wild bed head, she felt more like her old self—her San Diego self.
Strange. Nothing was really different. In the five days she’d spent in this compound, her schedule, guard and job had remained the same. Nothing had changed.
Except Will’s arrival.
A pounding on the door preceded the click of the lock, and she turned to meet Manuel in the middle of the room. His face contorted when she appeared, his frown turning even more sour. Lemons were sweeter than his scowl.
She considered giving him a smile, just to see how he’d react, until he waved his giant black machine gun toward her middle. “Vámanos.”
No amount of sleep made looking down the barrel of a gun more tolerable, so she simply nodded and trudged toward the door, trying to keep Manuel in her peripheral vision. His stride kept him about half a step behind her, but she didn’t need to see him to feel the weight of his breath muss the hair on the back of her head.
She picked up her pace, but he matched her movements even as she cringed away from his presence. Five hours without worry, five hours without vigilance, and she’d clearly forgotten the oppression of the man who shadowed her every move. But now she couldn’t shake him.
Her steps carried them past more than a dozen other cinder block buildings haloed by the morning sun. All just like hers, except for the absence of locks on the wooden doors.
They finally reached the mess hall, a single room filled with a dozen long, shallow tables. The far corner hosted a kitchen with stainless steel griddles that looked more suited for a food truck than a drug cartel’s fine dining establishment. Maybe they’d had some lean years. Or maybe the kitchen wasn’t their priority.
A lone man in a stained apron stood over one griddle, slinging fried potatoes with a metal spatula that could have easily served as a machete in the surrounding jungle. He lifted his hand and hollered a greeting that she’d come to recognize meant that she should grab a plate—the cleanest one she could find—and bring it over for her meager allotment of morning foodstuffs.
“Buenos días.” His words rolled as fast as his hand flung the sizzling chorizo across the greasy metal stove top. While he didn’t look up from his task, it was clear that his verbal greeting wasn’t directed at her, and Manuel grunted a somewhat less intelligible response.
Jess picked up a sand-colored plastic plate. The chef didn’t even wait for her to extend her dish before slopping half a day’s worth of calories toward the front of her shirt. Flying sausage and potatoes arced right for her chest. Throwing up her plate as a shield, she ducked.
A shove on her shoulder propelled her off balance. The toe of her shoe caught on a crack in the floor. She stumbled toward Manuel, who jumped out of her way, leaving her to crash against the cement wall.
But a jerk at her elbow caught her just before she fell. In one fluid motion, she spun around, the soles of her Converse sneakers finding purchase just as her gaze met Will’s reserved stare. He looked at the mess on the floor as his fingers loosened from her arm one at a time, making sure she was really stable before fully releasing her.
“Pardon me.” His ludicrously long eyelashes flickered as he backed away, refusing to meet her stare again.
Their guards bellowed at the same time, and Sergio’s fleshy fist came down on Will’s shoulder—right where Jess had hit him with the wrench a few nights before. With pinched lips and squinting eyes, Will looked behind him and mumbled an apology. The pain looked real, and it probably was.
But its effects were exaggerated. They had to be.
Will had made it through Hell Week—the most taxing training in the already intense SEAL regimen. He wouldn’t crumble under the pressure of a Panamanian drug thug.
The cook glared between the mess at his feet and Jess’s still outstretched plate. He pointed at the floor, rattling off something in Spanish so fast she couldn’t understand. But Manuel stepped in, saying there was no time. Probably for her to clean up the mess.
With a string of expletives, the cook slopped a spoonful of breakfast on her plate before Manuel pushed her to the corner table, and Will joined her a moment later.
But this was no leisurely meal. The two guards stood with crossed arms, watching every move Jess and Will made. She shoveled down the food so fast that she barely tasted it, except for the lingering fire of the spicy sausage.
Suddenly Sergio pulled on the back of Will’s shirt, tugging him out of the chair and toward the exit.
Eager to keep Manuel’s hands off her, J
ess hopped to her feet and chased after Will, leaving several bites left on her plate.
Will fell into step beside her as they ambled across the muddy yard, their guards several paces behind.
“I’m sorry.” Her words were barely loud enough to make it to his ear.
He raised one eyebrow in a signature questioning glance.
“That breakfast was rushed.” Will hadn’t had time to finish his serving, either.
Nothing about his posture or gait changed, and she felt more than heard his response. “I’ve survived on less before.”
What was that supposed to mean? He’d always had plenty. While not rich, his parents had owned a modest home in a nice neighborhood, only a few blocks from the house she’d shared with Great-aunt Eva after her mother had packed up everything she valued in two suitcases and walked out of Jess’s life forever.
Will’s grandmother had kept them all stuffed. Huevos rancheros and beans. Handmade corn tortillas and carne asada. Tamales and muchaca. The whole family—Will and Sal, aunts and uncles, cousins—had squeezed in around a table and feasted on Abuelita’s specialties. And at least once a week during high school, Jess had pulled up a chair between the two brothers and downed chile relleno as if she hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal since she was twelve years old.
And that was really only partially true.
Her father had learned to cook, and when he wasn’t on a ship in waters unknown, his table had been set with better-than-edible pot roast. When he was deployed and Great-aunt Eva came to stay in her home, Jess ate with the Gumbles.
She had firsthand evidence that Will had never gone hungry.
A glance to her right confirmed that their guards were still deep in conversation as they trudged toward the big house and the shed beyond, so she shot Will a questioning glare. “What do you mean?” Her words were barely a hiss, and she hadn’t anticipated a deep rumble and high-pitched shouting that caught everyone’s attention.
