THE EDGE OF TRUST (TEAM EDGE)

by KT Bryan

  “No.”

  “If I don’t have it with me, and someone calls me on it, what am I going to say? Oops, golly, I guess I lost it?”

  He thought about that for a minute. Sounded like a girl thing to do. Except, probably not this girl. And wasn’t that just his rotten luck. Instead of getting Cinderella, he got Princess Leia with extra attitude.

  He hated to admit it, but she was probably right. Weapons didn’t come cheap out here, and he didn’t want to be responsible for her getting beaten. Or worse.

  He sighed. “Fine. I’ll give you the weapon. You give me the lock.”

  She nodded, plucked the lock from her back pocket, and slapped it into his palm. He grudgingly, and ever so slowly, handed over the Uzi.

  “So you’ll be here tomorrow, when I come back?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Her eyes looked brighter. Almost eager. “I’ll bring food. And medicine for your wounds. You’ll see, we’ll be on the beach in no time.”

  He nodded, started to sit in the mud, stopped.

  “Manny? You remember that time when you were twelve and mama took us to the beach?”

  “Wait. Before you go. Is there...do you know...I need to find someone named Maggie.”

  Lena crossed her arms over her chest. Raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Something a friend told me to do.”

  “Juan.” The brightness left her eyes, replaced by tension and sadness. “I am Maggie.”

  “I thought your name was Lena.”

  “Only here. My name is Magdalena. I’m usually called Maggie. Maggie Alvarez.”

  Alvarez. Juan. Juan Alvarez. “Was Juan your--?”

  “Yes. Juan was my husband.”

  Maggie turned and walked out the door while Matt slid down the wall in sorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Journal Entry

  Random stuff this week.

  Been hearing rumors about some badass named Vega. Tosses bodies into abandoned silver mines. Not sure if he’s an assassin or some wild buckaroo trying to rise in the cartel ranks.

  Want you to know that I cover my ass extremely well. I keep my hard-drive clean and my journals on a thumb drive in a place so safe even God himself would have to look. I know once this story breaks, once the SBC is tried and found guilty, you’ll have these notes and write one hell of a story.

  Marco and I continue to butt heads. Nothing new there.

  Rigged the tunnel yesterday with enough explosive to reach the friggin’ border. There’s only one maintenance man now and he’s a lazy SOB. I’d suggest Sanchez fire him, but that would defeat my purpose. Some day I’m going to blow the tunnel for the sheer joy of it. In the meantime, the explosives are well hidden and the tunnel remains unused.

  I’ll be home for your birthday. The thought of seeing your lovely face keeps me going when I’m neck deep in ugly.

  I miss you more than you know. ~~ D.C.

  <><><>

  Sara glared at Dillon’s heels. She kept the flashlight trained on his feet and the path, his feet and the path, every now and then swinging the light up to make sure a branch didn’t snap in her face. Not that this was an actual path or trail or anything like that. No, they were winging it, making their own way deeper into the dense undergrowth, in a foreign country, with snakes and wild animals, it was pitch black out, the storm was getting worse and Sara was getting more and more nervous. What if they were doing nothing more than getting themselves lost? “How do you know we’re not trudging around in circles?”

  He stepped over a fallen log and helped her across. “I have a compass on my watch.”

  A compass. Of course. She sighed. “I don’t suppose that compass is telling you how far Sanchez’s place is from here?”

  “No, but if you like, maybe I could find you an Indian trail guide, or better yet, pitch you a tent, call you a taxi.”

  She squared her shoulders. Great, now he was annoyed. Well, fine. Stellar. “Yes, why don’t you. And order room service while you’re at it. I’m hungry.” Hungry and scared and worried. Wet and wind-blown. Tired beyond belief. “I can’t see more than a foot in front of me.”

  “I’ll order flood lights while I’m pitching that tent.”

  “You’re being an ass.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Sara clamped her lips shut and let it go. He wanted to sulk, let him. Not that she could really blame him. He didn’t want her along, and right now she didn’t either. She just wanted her baby.

  After almost another hour of walking, trudging, slipping, and plodding, she flicked her flashlight upward to check out their surroundings, and thought, oh goodie, it’s official. They were in No Man’s Land. Between the rain, the wind, the mud and the foliage, not to mention the absolute blackness, it was all she could do not to panic. “Dillon,” she tapped him on the shoulder with her flashlight. “I’m starting to get claustrophobic. Can we take a break?”

  “Clock is still ticking, Sara. Hold on to the back of my shirt, and don’t you dare panic.”

  She wisely kept her mouth shut, stuck one foot in front of the other and let Dillon deftly maneuver them over and around knotted roots, tangled vines, and overhung branches.

  <><><>

  Dillon picked his way over a particularly large root, pointed it out to Sara so she wouldn’t trip, and wanted to curse in frustration. The jungle was absolutely no place for a woman, any woman, let alone his wife.

  Sara had to be miserable and scared, and he had no idea what to do with her. He didn’t know how far away Sanchez was. He didn’t know where to stash Sara. He didn’t even know if he could stash her. He did know he couldn’t very well leave her to fend for herself, but he couldn’t take her with him to face Sanchez either.

  He pushed aside another vine directly in front of him and then stopped so abruptly that Sara barreled right into his back with a loud oomph. Turning around, he gave her a hard stare.

  She looked so miserable and worried it made it hard to remember why he was mad at her in the first place. Why he’d been glaring and carrying on like a jerk for the past hour.

  Before he had time to apologize, or reassure her, a tree limb crashed down behind them. The storm was gathering strength, and if they didn’t take shelter soon, they were going to spend the night wet and windblown and in complete darkness.

  Pointing the beam of his flashlight back in the direction they’d been headed, he could just barely make out what looked like the entrance to a cave in the side of a rock wall. Caves were plentiful in this part of Mexico, and when they’d started out, he’d kept his compass aimed for the closest cliff structure he’d seen. It looked like maybe his hunch had paid off and he hoped some kind of wild animal hadn’t had the same idea.

  “The storm’s getting worse. Looks like there might be a cave up ahead.” He pointed to an outcropping of rock and had to shout over the wind. “We can take shelter there for the night.”

  As they got closer, he saw the entrance to the cave was about six feet wide. It was pitch black inside, but as he flicked his flashlight around, he could see that it opened up into a large room, wide, with a high ceiling, and so far, thank you God, mercifully dry. He was sure Sara’s entire body was sore and pruney from slogging along in wet clothes. As rough as the interior of the cave was, right now it felt just as good as a room in a five-star hotel. Hell, he’d seen homes in third world countries that weren’t this nice.

  Dropping his duffel bag onto the floor of the cave, he silently fumed as he thought about the events of the day, and wondered how long he was going to be able to keep Sara alive through all of this.

  He’d done things in his life she could never possibly imagine, things, he was sure, that would give her nightmares for the rest of her life. And through it all, he’d lived. But this time the odds against him were staggering. The odds against saving Ellie and Sara and Matt even more so. And the more that ugly voice inside his head taunted him, told him he wasn’t really a hero, that he might not be ab
le to save her, his child, and Matt, the more furious he became.

  Without warning, he turned on Sara and erupted. “Do you know how many times today you could’ve been killed?”

  Sara dropped her duffel next to his with raised brows. “I don’t need you to lecture me.”

  “Jesus, Sara, what the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

  Hands on hips, she squared off, glaring. “Don’t you put all this on me!”

  “The hell I won’t! Lifting that flash drive out of my duffel bag was not a smart move. You should be with Jake back in some seedy hotel, not here in the friggin’ jungle!” He swiped a hand over his face and gave her a hard look. “Christ, Sara, don’t you get it? Sanchez is a demon, and he’ll kill you without thinking twice.”

  “I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “You don’t take chances with a man like Sanchez! Do you want to die?”

  “Of course not! But, I don’t want my child or my brother to die, either! And I don’t want you to die!” She swiped her hair back and said more somberly, “I didn’t choose all this, but I’m here, so back off.”

  She was right, she hadn’t chosen any of this. His vendetta with Sanchez hadn’t allowed her a choice in the matter. And just that fast, his anger deflated. “I need to check out the rest of the cave. Stay here.”

  She nodded and sat down.

  Dillon made a sweep of the cave with his flashlight. From what he could see, the cave stretched pretty far back. He pulled his gun, just in case, and slowly made his way into the dark.

  Not too far from the entrance, there was a decent sized amount of water, resembling a large creek, maybe an underground river, running down one wall of the cave and pooling about twenty feet from the entrance. It was moving, not stagnant, and appeared wondrously clear. The pool it formed was fairly large and looked to be four or five feet deep--big enough for a bath. Sara, he thought, was going to be thrilled. Hanging around with mud caked in places mud should never be caked was not a picnic.

  He explored a little more and about sixty feet in, smelled guano. He flipped off his light. Bats. Great. There could be hundreds or even thousands in a cave this size, and if they scattered, Sara would freak right back into the jungle. He retraced his steps a good thirty feet before he switched the flashlight back on.

  Reaching the entrance, he flicked the beam of light over Sara. “There’s a pool of clean water about twenty feet back if you want to wash off and change.”

  And the thought of her naked, just a few yards away, made him clamp his lips shut, pivot on his heel and stalk back outside into the rain to gather wood for a fire.

  Spotting an overhang, he stomped over and gathered up as many dry branches as he could hold, then made a mad dash back to the cave before the wood got soaked. Just as he ducked inside, he heard a startled shriek and a splash. Dropping the wood in a pile, he sprinted back toward the pool and stopped short.

  There Sara was, bobbing around like she had no cares in the world, naked as a blue jay, looking like a friggin’ sea nymph.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  Think noble. Good intentions. Mind out of the gutter. Don’t even look.

  “I, uh, found some dry wood, so at least we’ll be able to have some light and a hot meal.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and started rinsing out her pants.

  “You can lay your clothes and boots on the big rock near the entrance. With the fire going, they should be somewhat dry by morning.” Eyes on the ground. No peeking.

  “Okay. Good,” she said, and started rinsing out her shirt.

  “Dinner shouldn’t take long.” Keep your hands in your pockets. Dick in your pants.

  “Um, hmm,” she said, and started wringing out her clothes. She gave him a pointed look.

  “Okay, well, I’ll just go start dinner then.” Dillon left her to it, and went to build a fire. And hoped she hadn’t noticed the fact that he had a raging case of hard-on going.

  As he bent down to make a pyramid out of the wood, the pain in his leg reminded him he’d taken a small fragment to the thigh. Once the fire was going, he searched through his duffel bag for the med kit he always carried. After sterilizing his knife and a pair of tweezers, he cut the hole in his fatigues open and propped his foot on a rock. With a deep breath, he locked his jaw, dug the tweezers straight into his leg and grabbed the jagged piece of steel. He yanked it out, and with a low growl of pain, said, “Fuck.”

  Sara was fully dressed, digging in her duffel bag and apparently oblivious. At his exclamation she stiffened like a rod and whirled around. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Not...a...single...damn...thing.” He threw the offending piece of metal into the fire.

  Anger flashed in her eyes when she saw the amount of blood coming from the wound in his leg. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

  “Not a big deal.”

  “Of all the macho, pig-headed, stupid things to say--” Spotting the open first-aid kit, she quit sputtering and grabbed the antibiotic ointment and bandages. “Put the knife away before you accidentally jab me and hold still.” With a piece of gauze, she cleaned the blood away, smeared some ointment on a dressing, and quickly bandaged the wound.

  “Okay, Sara, that’s good.” He wanted her away from him or all his good intentions were going to go to hell in a proverbial hand-basket.

  She put the ointment back in the kit, closed it, and looked at him. A multitude of emotions glittered in her dark brown eyes. Just for an instant, before she tried to hide them, he saw. Anger. Fear. Confusion. Longing. The same desire he felt every time he looked at her.

  Then she blinked, and poof, the blank stare was back as if those emotions never existed.

  Before he had a chance to make a move, or even comment, she turned, grabbed up her wet clothes and stalked away to lay them on a rock.

  Good, he thought, keep your distance. Better for both of us.

  Annoyed, he walked over to the duffel and pulled out the necessary ingredients for dinner. Thought about using the ration heater, then decided he’d rather cook dinner the old fashioned way. Over a fire. Flames suited his mood.

  Several minutes later, Sara returned sans wet clothes and sniffed appreciatively. “That smells great. But,” she sniffed again, “it smells an awful lot like beef stew. You find a grocery store close by?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She shrugged, ignoring his mood, and asked, “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  Dillon stifled a groan. Almost laughed. Wasn’t that a loaded question. He wanted to tell her exactly what she could do. He wanted to tell her that his memories were driving him insane, wanted to beg her to lie beside him, and he most definitely wanted to remind her that he was still her husband and very much a man.

  Instead, he stuck a tablet into a small camp coffeepot and handed it over. “You can fill this with water.”

  “What are those?” She pointed to several empty pouches scattered at his feet.

  “That’s the stew you’re smelling. MRE’s. Complete with coffee and dessert.”

  His gaze wandered from the stew to the brown-colored pouches so familiar to soldiers everywhere, then immediately collided with long, endless legs just inches from his face. That was about all he could take and he snapped, “Sara, for God’s sake, go already.”

  Startled by his irritable tone, she took a hasty step backward and bristled. “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing.” He sighed. “Sorry. Just hungry.”

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be right back with the water.”

  Moments later, they were dining by firelight and drinking strong, dark coffee. Cupping her metal coffee mug in both hands, Sara surprised him by saying, “So. Let’s hear it. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m a reporter, Dillon. That means I generally know when people are holding out on me.” She peered at him over the rim of her cup. “What d
id I miss during the last year?”

  Dillon leaned back against the wall, made himself relax. “You won’t like it. And neither will I.”

  “Fair enough. Start with Sanchez.” Sara set her cup down and waited.

  “Sanchez prefers Louis XIV over Macallen, lamb over steak, and small brunettes with lots of cleavage. He writes with a Monte Blanc pen, black ink only. Black leather, never brown. Luxury cars over flash and speed.”

  “Good to know,” she said with a nod. “Now, let me tell you what I know.” Hitching her legs up Indian style, she turned toward him. “Four years ago you went undercover in the SBC. You stayed under for three years, coming home as often as said cover would allow. Then, one year ago, last year almost to the day, you’re all of a sudden sorry you married me, and coincidentally, I get a shit ton of pictures of you and another woman. More coincidentally, I just happened to get blown off a dock and disappear for a year.” When he started to speak, she raised her hand to cut him off. “I’ll get to the disappearance in a minute. I’ll even take the heat for that. But let’s go back. Let’s go to the part where you said, and I quote, ‘I’m sorry I ever married you.’”

  “My God, Sara, that was just a fight! If I’d said I was going to throw you in the attic for the rats to eat you, would you have believed me?”

  “We don’t have an attic. Or rats.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No, the point is, that some things which are said can never be unsaid.”

  “If that’s true, then I’m screwed no matter what I say.”

  “Hmm,” she said, nodding in between sips, not giving a damn thing away, “that’s a possibility. So, what about the pictures?”

  “Adoña.” He stretched his legs out and shoved his metal plate to the side with his foot. “You were wrong, pictures can lie. And if you’d taken the time to really look at them, you’d have seen that not one single picture was intimate, because we were never intimate. Those were taken simply to make me look guilty about something I never did. I don’t know who took them and I also don’t know who sent them. Maybe Marco, but I can’t very well ask him.”

  “Why’s that?”