by J. C. Cliff
“It’s just temporary,” he assures me. “We’re going to meet up down the line, but it’s safer to split up like this.” His tone is not one to argue with; he’s all business. I bite my lip and nod. Satisfied with my compliance, he says, “We’re almost there, darlin’.” His eyes soften a tad then he pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to me. “Drink, you need to stay hydrated.”
I quietly do as he says, and after I take my fill of water, I hand the bottle back to him and watch him finish it off.
Why is it when you get a very capable, self-assured, and confident man in the woods, it increases his sex appeal exponentially? Not that Stryker needs help adding to his sex appeal, but he just kind of blew the roof is all. Watching him take charge and jump right into action has left me speechless. Watching his arm muscles flex while he used his strength to cut away at the underbrush did strange and wild things low in my belly. I can admit that to myself, now that I know we’re out of harm’s way.
Stryker’s ‘almost there’ winds up being a few hours later. I think he kept the distance a secret, because he didn’t want me to bitch about it. I don’t know if I would’ve complained or not, had I known how much longer we had to trek through the jungle, but the image of multiple armed men dispensing from heavy vehicles hasn’t left my mind. I can still hear my name being called out as clear as day.
I’m tired, hot, sweaty, thirsty, hungry, and scared. All the physical and emotional turmoil one can experience has drained me to the point of severe exhaustion, and adding to this mix is the surge of expended adrenaline, which only serves to make me feel worse.
I glance at my watch as we come to a slowdown; it’s past 5:00 p.m. Stryker comes to a halt, and slips his heavy sack from his shoulders. I have to wonder what else he’s got stowed away in there, but apparently it’s off-limits. He sheathes his machete then tucks it away into the mystery bag. He pulls me from my deep thoughts by nudging into my chest with a water bottle. I look up at him in silence.
“Don’t drink it all, and take slow sips,” he instructs. I’m sure I look as if I’m this frightened little girl to him, because his eyes soften. He reaches out and brushes the damp tendrils of hair from my forehead. “We’re going to be all right now. I know you have questions, but let’s get settled before I explain things, okay?”
I only give him a small nod. I haven’t uttered a single word since we left the village. Stryker lets out a heavy sigh as if he hates seeing me this way. He leans down and presses his lips to my sweaty forehead then takes a step back to hoist his heavy sack onto his shoulders once again.
“C’mon,” he quietly says, as he grabs my hand. Not too much longer, and I find myself stepping into a tiny neighborhood of sorts. I don’t know how else to explain it. There must be at least twenty primitive huts I know to be called chozas. They’re made of straw and have dirt floors. Their little houses, if you want to call them that, only have two structural walls made of bamboo to offer some privacy and shelter from the elements, but the other half of the house is wide open.
Their huts are huddled together, as if these people live as one big, happy family. At this point, I’m very nervous of strangers, and I find myself holding on to Stryker’s hand a little tighter.
As we enter the tiny community with caution, a few women surface from the edges of their huts to stare at us, which puts me further on edge. They are fully inked with intricate designs, while small patches of their skin are exposed to show the contrast. They’re wearing the same type of Paloma skirt I was given yesterday, bright and colorful, and their necks are adorned with ornamental jewelry, which leads me to believe they are Waounan. The women are bare-chested, which tells me they are more primitive than the Waounans we left earlier today. I relax ever so slightly, because the Waounans are generous, kind, and peaceful people.
Two men are already approaching Stryker and me. They’re skin is dark and leathered from working years in the sun. They are wearing worn-out shorts instead of loin cloths. Maybe they are more civilized. Who knows? I guess I’m trying to talk myself into believing we’re safe among them, and hopefully they’re used to seeing outsiders like us.
Stryker grabs for my hand then threads his fingers through mine as the men come to a stop in front of us. Just when I didn’t think I had any more adrenaline to produce, I feel it spike from the confrontation alone.
“Hola,” Stryker greets. The man nods, and then, to my utter surprise, Stryker begins to explain to the stranger in perfect Spanish how we are botanists and got turned around. My jaw goes slack, because Stryker spoke very broken Spanish in the clinic, and now he’s standing here with extreme confidence, rattling off the language with inflections that would make a foreign language scholar proud.
Since I’m not very fluent, I can only pick out the highlights of what he’s saying. I watch the strangers as they process Stryker’s words. Every now and then, they appear to have moments of confusion cross over their faces, and then they give a quick nod as if they finally understand. I think they’re having to decipher some of the highlights too, because the language Stryker is speaking is different than the Wauonan dialect.
The main points I can pick out from the conversation are sleep, water, ride, and Panama City in the morning. Stryker then lets go of my hand to dig in the side pocket of his cargo pants. When he produces a sum of cash, the men’s eyes light up with a new understanding, and part of me finds it ironic just how quickly money can become the universal language.
One of the men is constantly rattling off “Si” nonstop, as if he’s totally on board with what Stryker is asking for. As the stranger takes the money from Stryker’s hand, he says, “Sígueme. La voluntad comparto mi la casa.”
I’m assuming that means to follow him to his house, because that’s exactly what we do next. He leads the way to his humble abode, which is raised only a few feet off the ground. He gestures for us to enter, so I climb into the house by stepping up small carved out steps from a large log.
As we step onto the platform, the man says, “Un momento. Te traigo aqua y alimentos.”
“What did he say?” I whisper to Stryker.
“He’s bringing us water and something to eat.”
I knew that’s what the man said, I was talking about the earlier conversation, but I guess Stryker’s not ready to explain yet.
When the Spanish men leave us, I plunk my tired ass down on the dusty floor and lean my back against one of the supporting columns. I’m just too exhausted to give a damn right now, so I lean my head back and close my eyes. I don’t even bother to peel open my eyes to see what Stryker is doing when I hear him wrestling with his backpack.
“You hanging in there, sweetheart?” he asks with a light tone.
“Barely,” I reply, wanting desperately to take a nap. I roll my head to the side and peer up at Stryker. He grins down at me, his dimples on full display, which serves to relax me. “How are you even finding the energy to talk right now?”
“I work out everyday, which includes a five mile run.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “I don’t even want to think about those words right now, ‘work out and run.’ I think I’m allergic.” I pat the space beside me, hoping he’ll join me, but he shakes his head. Despite the pretty-boy smiles he flashes me every now and then, Stryker still looks wired for sound. He can’t stay still in any one spot for too long before he’s moving again. He’s pacing around the little square hut, his eyes constantly moving and searching, and I wonder if this reprieve from danger is too good to be true.
I close my eyelids for a bit and try to rest, but that doesn’t happen. Off in the distance, I hear the Spanish dialect, and I listen as it gets closer and closer. Stryker, of course, has already left the hut, meeting the men in the dirt walkway. When one of them smiles and shakes hands with Stryker, it’s apparent he’s missing a few front teeth, and for some reason, that breaks my heart. It would’ve been nice had these people been able to travel to our clinic to get healthcare.
My muscles and
joints are starting to stiffen, now that I’ve been sitting still. I stretch my legs out in front of me as a few Spanish women approach carrying a couple baskets of water, and a fairly large basket of what I hope to be is food. I stay frozen in place, not sure what I should do. I don’t feel adventurous right now. In fact, I’m very much inside my own head, and all I want is the comfort that only Stryker can give. It appears he has everything under control, anyway.
Once they part ways, Stryker comes back into the hut, carrying water and the large basket. For some reason, he seems far more at ease now, which I’m thankful for, because it means I can be at ease. He comes to sit beside me and places the basket between us. “Have some food here for you.” I peer into the basket and my stomach rumbles. A fresh collection of fruit, various roots from jungle plants, and tubers fill the basket.
“Thank you,” I murmur softly. I reach out to take a fresh mango from the basket, and when I do, he grabs my wrist. I look up at him with questioning eyes.
“We’re going to be okay,” he assures me. The soft timbre of his voice stirs something deep within me. He’s been fiercely protective over me, and I’m thankful for that, but he shouldn’t say those words. Nobody can predict if we’re going to be okay or not. My lips form a half-smile in response. There are too many questions to ask, yet I have nothing to say right now. Maybe I’m experiencing a form of shock, because I can’t seem to process everything that happened today.
Stryker lets out a deep sigh that sounds like annoyance over my continued silence. He releases my arm then changes the subject. “Let’s eat, clean up, and then when we lay down to rest, we’ll talk about what happened.”
“All right.” I’m not sure if I want to hear anything he has to say. I don’t understand why I was kept in the dark about possibly being someone’s target, and yet the Darian Police thought enough of it to tell Stryker and Hunter, but not me.
Stryker and Hunter just seemed to click when everything started happening, and their reactions to the situation was as if they expected such a thing to go down, and they were prepared to take action.
I don’t understand how they were able to handle the element of surprise and then function with such clarity and swiftness. It’s like they already knew what to do and where to go ahead of time, and it took a minimal amount of words for them to communicate that.
I’m even more thrown off by their bug-out bags. The pistols each of them produced as well as their machetes really freaked me out. People don’t go on mission trips with those items, not to mention the fact there was no way they would be allowed to bring said items with them. There is no doubt in my mind each man came on this trip prepared for danger, and somehow, I appear to be in the middle of it and I don’t know why. I’m not sure I want to know what’s going on, because that would mean I’ve been deceived by Stryker’s true intentions. I don’t think my heart can handle the truth.
CHAPTER 35
~ Stryker ~
Her silence is unsettling to a degree, and a small part of me wishes she’d just go ahead unleash all her pent-up frustrations and unanswered questions. She appears more withdrawn than I’m used to seeing, and maybe that’s partly due to the fact she’s still processing everything.
I’m all she has to keep her safe right now. She can’t run back to the safety of her home in Raleigh, lock her doors, and sniff her candle out of existence. Oh shit… her candle. I wish like hell I knew on the front end that particular fragrance calmed her, and that it meant something profound. I would’ve lathered myself in it all along. I really wish I had that votive right now.
This village is exactly where I wanted to end up. Hunter had investigated the different communities, both large and small, that would make for a great place to stay under the radar.
He personally talked with a few local contacts Quinn and Travis had prearranged to confirm the safety of these surrounding villages. Quinn had also programmed all their coordinates in our GPS watches. I’ve already sent a quick message to him, letting him know we are out of harm’s way for the moment. I was glad to see he was able to confirm that Hunter and Celia were safe as well. The next step is to reconvene with Hunter, all the while placing more pressure on the women to get some answers. My gut tells me, however, that Valerie knows nothing.
After we ate the food given to us, I took her to a nearby source of water, and we both were able to clean up. The women of the little village gave Valerie one of their colorful skirts to wear, and a plain, used-but-clean T-shirt, and I could see how genuinely thankful Valerie was to get some clean clothing. Both of us washed our dirty clothes, all except for my camo pants. They’re the only long pants I’ve got right now.
We’re back at our borrowed hut for the evening, each of us lost in our own thoughts and being unusually quiet. I’m still very much on edge, and maybe that’s part of the reason Valerie continues to not say a word. I need to tell her not to be intimidated by my stand-offish and tense demeanor. Just as I can’t stand it any longer, she finally breaks the silence and speaks.
“Are we truly safe here?” she asks in a small, worried voice.
“Nothing is a hundred percent, but I’d say we’re pretty close to it.”
“So what now?”
“Well, my main priority right now is to get us out of the jungle. I hired one of those men to take us upriver to another village. They have some vehicles there, so we’ll hitch a ride with one of them into the city.”
She chews on that bit of news for a minute, then asks, “What about Celia?”
“She and Hunter will meet us there in the city, and before you ask, they’re doing fine. I’ve been in contact.” I can see the puzzled expression on her face, trying to figure out when exactly I had the opportunity to touch base with Hunter, since I haven’t left her side for a second. I’m thinking she’s going to probe me for answers about this, but then she surprises me with a different question.
“How did they know my name? What would those men want from me? What could they possibly want?” Valerie says, clearly frightened.
“Maybe your late husband had enemies?” I offer.
“No,” she adamantly denies, “not in Central America, anyway. He never did business in this part of the world. He was always flying to either different parts of the US, or abroad to places like the UK.” She thinks about something for a minute, then adds, “He was an extremely likable man and highly professional. I just can’t picture him having enemies, and even if he did, he’s gone now. It’d be pointless for anyone to come after me.”
“Maybe they want your money?”
She closes her eyes, and shakes her head in defeat. “It means nothing to me, Stryker. They can have it,” she says resolutely. She drops her head into both of her palms, her arms slightly trembling. I gently peel away her hands and look her square in the eyes. It’s time to press her for answers.
“Now would be a good time to tell me if you’re involved in anything… anything at all,” I prod almost accusingly.
Her head snaps back as if I bitch-slapped her. “Oh my God, Stryker. How could you even ask such a thing?” She’s severely appalled. She lets out a frustrated huff. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’m just trying to cover all the bases. You have to respect that.”
“I think if anyone is involved in anything, it would be you.” I look at her in surprise, but she keeps on talking. “How about you come clean with me? Mind telling me why it is you’re carrying a machete and a gun, Stryker? What else is in that backpack of yours? Don’t you find it interesting that when your watch made that bleeping sound, you conveniently knew to head for the jungle? You already knew we’d be running for our lives.”
She stares at me full of accusations, and before she blurts out more shit, I place two fingers over her lips to shush her.
She angrily bats my hand away. “Don’t you dare shush me. You owe me some answers,” she grits out. I half-smile at her, glad to see her spunk coming back.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “
Yeah, all right. You’re absolutely right,” I softly concede, but she doesn’t give me a chance to explain.
“It’s obvious both you and Hunter have come awfully prepared,” she says with a brief nod toward my backpack, “and judging by the things you keep pulling out of there, you’ve been expecting more than a simple mission trip. So why are you really here?”
Damn if she doesn’t get right to the point. She’s far more intelligent than I gave her credit for. As I think about how diligent my answers need to be, she adds, “It’s hard for me to believe you’ve had this trip on your schedule for awhile, and I no longer think you and I running into each other has been a mere coincidence.”
I stay expressionless, not sure how much information I should divulge, because I still don’t know how innocent she is. “Trust me,” I start off, “if I wanted to step back into your life, I could've done that for a hell of a lot cheaper in Raleigh. I had already made commitments to this trip, and I had to stick to them. You know with my military history I’m always prepared for shit, even in the States. It’s been ingrained in me. I’m especially on edge in foreign countries. So yeah, I might have over-packed by a few weapons.”
“I’m calling bullshit, Stryker. Don’t patronize me.” Her voice rises to a new level of angry. I’m not interested in a knock-down-drag-out exchange of blows. Been there, done that back at the Local Edge.
I rub at the scruff on my jawline, thinking of how much will be enough information until she’s satisfied. I tell her the truth, blurting out, “I’ve been hired to look after you.”
She gasps, taken aback by my blunt statement. “No,” she whispers in shock.
“Yep.” I nod.
“Why… how….” She stumbles over her words then her hands start shaking again, so I grab them and hold them tight. Surprisingly, she lets me.
