by Candace Camp
“Yeah.”
John jerked to a halt and killed the engine. He and Cutter opened their doors and slid out of the high cab. Leslie followed quickly.
“Cutter…” He ignored her and walked to the plane. There were several San Cristóbalian men in a line desultorily passing boxes out of the cargo hold onto the ground. Many more boxes were stacked on the ground around them. “Cutter!”
He rattled off a string of words in Spanish to the workers, and the line sped up considerably. Leslie broke into a trot, then ran to catch up with him. “Cutter!” She grabbed one of his arms and jerked hard enough that he turned.
“What?”
“Don’t give me that innocent stare. You heard me calling you. What is all this?” She swept one arm in an arc to indicate the piles of boxes beneath the plane.
“Cargo.”
“Whose cargo?” Leslie asked.
“Mine.”
Swept with fury, Leslie dropped his arm. “You’re bringing in contraband! You’re endangering my project—Blake’s life—so you can make a few bucks. Even after what I paid you, you’re so greedy you have to slip in drugs or arms or whatever it is you deal in! If the government catches you, it’ll sink our whole plan.”
“The government won’t catch me.”
“Oh? You have a guarantee?”
“They’ve never caught me yet,” Cutter replied.
“You lied! You used me.”
“No.”
“No? What else would you call it?”
Cutter felt a fierce stab of guilt. He had used her as cover, and now he wished he hadn’t. Even the fact that it was for something important no longer seemed to excuse it. He hated the accusing look in her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I should have told you. But I promise this won’t get in the way of finding Blake.”
“How can you promise? How do you know the people you’re dealing with won’t turn against you or the government won’t find us again? We could wind up in jail—or dead!”
She was right. Death or jail was a possibility, one that had never before particularly concerned him. He knew the risks and he knew his abilities to counter the risks. He was safer than most would be in the same situation, and that had always been enough for him. But now… he looked at Leslie and a cold chill ran through him. Even the slightest possibility of Leslie’s dying or winding up in a San Cristóbal prison was too much. For the first time he could remember, Cutter wished he had a one-hundred-percent guarantee of safety.
Cutter slammed one fist into his other palm. “Damn it!” he exploded. “Why did I ever let you come with me?”
“Because you didn’t have any other choice,” Leslie blazed back.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Listen. John is flying straight back to the States as soon as we unload this cargo. I want you to go with him.”
“Are you crazy?” Leslie shrugged out of his grasp. “There’s no way I’m going to turn you loose in this country with your illegal goods and no supervision. More than ever I need to be here to protect my interests.”
“You can trust me to carry out this job!” he roared.
“Oh, yeah?” Leslie retorted like an angry child, fists planted on her hips.
“Yeah!” He faced her in the same stance, his jaw thrusting out pugnaciously. He wished very much that there was something around he could hit. Why was she so damned stubborn? So damned contrary? So damned beautiful?
“Uh, Cutter, excuse me…” John approached them warily, keeping a couple of arm’s lengths away from Cutter.
“What?” Cutter snapped, swinging around to glower at him.
Mecklin cleared his throat. “Cargo hold’s empty. Shall I take off?”
Cutter swiveled back to Leslie. “Are you going to get on that plane?”
“No!”
His eyes blazed with green fire. “Fine. That’s fine. Stay here and risk your neck, then. Take off, Mecklin. Apparently the lady prefers guerrillas and snakes.” Cutter turned away from her, calling out orders in Spanish to the workmen. He strode toward the back of the truck, where the men were now loading the goods. Fuming, Leslie followed him.
“Cutter! Just a minute. I’m not through.”
“I am.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. We haven’t settled this yet.”
“This what?” Feelings clashed and surged within Cutter—guilt over his deceit, anger at Leslie for not going home with Mecklin and an unaccustomed fear that he would fail and Leslie would suffer. He wanted to vent his rage, lash out at anything around him. He was used to being in control—and here he was, without the least bit of control over this woman. She was maddening, infuriating. And extremely sexy. Her fury tinged her cheeks red and made her eyes sparkle. The fact that he noticed it even in the midst of his anger enraged him further.
“This!” Leslie waved her hand around, indicated the truck and the goods being loaded onto it. “Those crates.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Oh, yes, there is. This is my mission. I’m paying you good money for it, and I don’t expect you to be making side trips for your own benefit. I want you to unload those boxes. Now.”
“Want all you like. They’re staying put.”
“Cutter! This is—”
He held up a hand. “I know. I know. This is your mission, your money, your party. Right? I’ve got news for you, lady. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the middle of the interior of San Cristóbal, you don’t speak a word of Spanish and the only transportation around is my truck. Now, what makes you think you’re giving the orders?”
“I’m warning you, if you double-cross me like this, you’ll never see the rest of your money.”
“To hell with your money! We’re not in your world now. Money doesn’t count here. What counts is that I have a truck and a gun, and I know where we’re going. I’ll drop off these goods on our way to find the guerrillas. It won’t be a step out of the way. Then I’m going to find the Moristas and your precious ex-husband, and I’m going to bring both of you back to La Luz. After that, I hope to God I’m done with you.” For a moment they stood glaring at each other in silence. Then Cutter broke away and started toward the truck. “I’m leaving as soon as this thing is loaded. You coming with me?”
Leslie was so mad she could hardly think; she wanted to scream and throw things. She wished she could think of something sufficiently derogatory to say to Cutter, but she didn’t know anything that nasty. The worst, most awful thing was that he was right. She was powerless out here. Cutter was in control. If she didn’t go along, he would leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere. No man, not even her father, had ever had such power over her. And no one had ever made her so furious.
She stomped after him and swept past without a glance. Grasping the right door of the cab, she swung up into the seat and yanked the door to with a satisfying slam. Outside she could hear Cutter yelling at the men in vicious-sounding Spanish, and she felt a small burst of satisfaction. At least she had got to him as badly as he had gotten to her. She checked her phone. Maybe she should text her dad or Avery. Just to let them know where she was. Just in case. Except she didn’t know where she was. And there was no network available according to the X-ed out circle in the upper right hand corner of her phone. Damn.
Leslie looked up from her useless phone in time to see the vintage plane rumble across the field and take off. Tears stung her eyes and for a moment she wished she had taken Cutter’s advice and left with the young, blond pilot. How nice it would be to be home again. Back in her safe, secure apartment, where she didn’t have to wonder if it was safe to drink the water. Back to clean sheets and a soft bed and no slipping out of hotels in the middle of the night. No more boat trips or contraband goods or trees so thick it gave you claustrophobia. Most of all, no more Cutter!
But Leslie had never been one to take a way simply because it was easier, and she wouldn’t this time, either. She’d stick it out in San Cristóbal and with Cutter unt
il she found Blake.
It was dark when the men finished loading the truck and slammed shut the rear doors. Leslie sat up with a start, amazed to find that she had drifted off to sleep. She yawned and straightened in the seat, stretching cramped muscles. The door on the opposite side of the truck opened, and Cutter climbed in. He tossed her a single quick look but said nothing. There was an odd leather belt in his hand, which he laid down carefully beside his seat. Leslie stared at it. On one side of the belt was a large scabbard, with the hilt of a knife thrusting out of it. On the opposite side of the belt was a holster. The flap was unsnapped and she could see that inside it was the butt of a gun. Leslie’s eyes widened.
He reached out of the cab and also hauled in a rifle, holding it by its long barrel. Leslie shuddered. It looked hideously lethal. There was even a telescopic sight folded down and pushed over to the side. Cutter swung the weapon over their heads and into the shallow shelf that lay behind their seat. Leslie’s heart knocked against her ribs. She couldn’t speak. Cutter had struck her as dangerous when she met him. But now! She was sitting in a truck with a man who had some sort of gigantic knife, a pistol and an assassin’s rifle! She was alone, and Cutter was suddenly very much a stranger.
Cutter turned the key in the ignition, and the engine ground noisily. It took two more tries for the engine to shudder to life. Leslie compressed her lips, forcing back a smile. At least the inept start had lightened the pall of dread that had wrapped around her a moment ago.
Cutter guided the heavy truck back through the narrow tunnel of trees and onto the road. Cutter drove more slowly than John had earlier, for which Leslie was grateful. Of course, it was night now, and the headlights illuminated only a short stretch of narrow, rutted road in front of them. Cutter couldn’t see well enough to drive fast—and now the truck was carrying cargo. That thought made Leslie uneasy. What were they carrying? Was it something dangerous? She thought of ammunition and explosives. Nitroglycerin. Her throat went dry. She considered asking him about their cargo, but she decided she didn’t really want to know.
They drove for several hours through the dark, and Leslie’s neck and shoulders began to ache from straining to see. It was ridiculous, of course, Cutter was the one driving, not her. But she couldn’t keep from peering anxiously through the windshield, searching for the dark shape of some obstacle that might be clearly visible in the daytime but disastrous at night. Cutter pulled off the road once or twice and checked a folded map with aid of a flashlight. The yellowish glow lit his face from below, casting dark shadows on his cheeks and eyes and giving him an eerie, almost fiendish look. It made Leslie shiver, and she looked away.
This was the real Cutter, she told herself, the one who had betrayed her, not the joking, casual Cutter, nor the Cutter who had kissed her with such passion and expertise.
Eventually, unbelievably, she dozed off and awoke sometime later with a start. She sat up, looking around, and realized that Cutter had stopped the truck again. This time he had left the cab. Leslie peered out and saw him in front of the truck, smoking a cigarette, flashlight held up to illuminate a road sign. After a minute he ground out the red ember and dropped it in what looked like an Altoids tin that he slipped back into his shirt pocket. Well, at least he wasn’t littering. Cutter turned and walked back, turning off the flashlight.
“Why don’t you stop for the night?” Leslie asked irritably, diverted from her intention to remain utterly silent with him. “We can drive on in the morning.”
“It’s safer at night,” he replied tersely, not even glancing at her.
“Safer!” Leslie repeated in amazement before she understood what he meant. At night they weren’t so visible to the army or government agents.
She gritted her teeth and decided once more not to talk to him. Cutter concentrated on the road and paid her no attention. Leslie had the feeling that he didn’t even notice she was snubbing him.
Cutter pulled off the road and onto a dirt track. Leslie could hear the thwack of branches against the trailer. They were almost crawling now. An hour later, they made another turn, this time onto a better road. But before long they were again changing to a more primitive road. Leslie wondered where they were. She also wondered how it could possibly take them this long to reach the mountains, even given the slow pace at which they traveled. San Cristóbal simply wasn’t that big a country. The boat had taken them far into the interior. On the ride from Tres Rocas to the airplane, she had seen the verdant mountains looming off to their right. Yet after all the driving tonight, they still were not going up into the mountains.
She cast a speculative glance at Cutter. She would have liked to question him about it, but she was determined not to speak to him again. Besides, he’d probably only lie to her. She crossed her arms and stared out the side window into the night. It was utterly black out there. She hadn’t seen the lights of any houses or towns since they’d left the airstrip. Of course, with the towering trees and thick bushes and vines around, you couldn’t see anything until you came right up on it, but still, you’d think they would have passed by some houses. Why hadn’t she seen any? Was the interior really this desolate and uninhabited?
Then she realized what he was doing. It all made sense now. Cutter was avoiding the towns and villages. It explained the length of time it was taking them, the lack of any sign of life, the frequent turning off onto even worse roads. He didn’t want to be seen.
Gradually Leslie became aware of a dull roar. The noise grew louder by the moment. The truck slowed and came to a halt, its headlights shining out in front, outlining a structure before them. It took Leslie a moment to realize what the thing was. It was a bridge. Or some rickety approximation of a bridge. Made of wooden planks and supported by wooden beams, it was little wider than the truck itself. It looked as if it had been built at least a hundred years ago.
Cutter left the truck and walked over to it. In the beam of headlights, Leslie watched him go slowly, carefully across the bridge, his eyes turned downward. He stopped now and then and knelt to examine something. Twice he jumped up and down. It seemed to Leslie that she could see the whole structure shake. Cutter returned to the truck and put the gearshift into first. The truck began to roll forward.
“Cutter!” Leslie gasped, too appalled to continue her campaign of silence. “Seriously? You aren’t actually going to drive this truck across that—that—”
“Bridge,” he supplied calmly, continuing to maneuver onto the narrow structure. “It’s called a bridge.”
“That is not a bridge. That thing barely qualifies as a catwalk!” Leslie suspected there were even models that would be scared to walk it. “You’re insane! The truck’s too heavy. It can’t take the weight. Cutter, stop!”
“It’ll hold, I think.”
“You think!”
“I checked it out. It’s still sturdy enough.”
“No! You can’t be sure. Go back.”
Cutter shook his head, keeping his eyes to the front. They eased onto the bridge. The wood planks creaked as the truck crawled across them. The roar of the river below them was intense. Leslie clenched her hands tightly together in her lap. Little trails of sweat trickled down her sides, but inside she was cold as ice. It wasn’t a wide river; they were halfway across. Going back was pointless now. There was nothing to do but endure it and pray that Cutter was right.
He was. After agonizing minutes, the truck rolled off the bridge and onto safe ground. Leslie sagged, releasing her pent-up breath in a burst. Even Cutter let loose a little sigh and paused to run his hand through his hair.
Leslie swung on him. “You are crazy! Certifiable! How could you risk that? Isn’t there any other place to cross that river?”
“Sure.” Cutter resettled the cowboy hat on his head and started forward again. “About ten miles south of here. This is the old bridge. But the new bridge has guards stationed on either end. You have to present your papers and let them inspect your vehicle.”
“You were avoidi
ng a government checkpoint.”
“Right.”
“You almost got us killed to avoid a checkpoint?” Leslie’s voice rose incredulously.
“I did not almost get us killed. I’ve driven over that bridge twice before.”
“Oh, yeah, I could tell how sure you were of it. That’s why you got out and walked over it inch by inch first.”
“I believe in playing it safe,” he said with a shrug. “I wanted to make sure it hadn’t weakened since the last time.”
Leslie glared at him. “If you believed in playing it safe, you wouldn’t have used that bridge at all. You wouldn’t have that cargo in back. You risked both our lives just to smuggle in your lousy guns.”
“It’s not guns. It’s—”
Leslie threw up her hands. “I don’t care! I don’t want to know what it is. I just want you to dump it before we get caught and before you try something else insane!”
“Dump it! Now you’re the one acting crazy. Do you know how much that stuff costs?”
“I told you, I don’t care. You shouldn’t have brought it. You shouldn’t be carrying it on this trip.”
“We’ve gone through this before. I’m delivering my cargo. Period. I had a prior commitment to bring it. It was easier to do both at once.”
“Easier! Oh, sure, rattling around the countryside in the middle of the night, avoiding towns and army checkpoints, using decrepit old bridges—that’s a lot easier.”
“We’d be dodging the checkpoints and towns even without my cargo. You think the army would have let you waltz into the mountains? An American tourist? In guerrilla territory? Not likely. We’d have been detained, maybe more politely than we would be for what’s in the back, but the results would have been the same.”
Leslie stared. “Are you serious? You mean they’d have stopped me?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. This isn’t the U.S., lady. You can’t run around anywhere you want. You only go where the army lets you—or you sneak around the army. Why do you think they had those two guys tailing us? Not to watch us visit the ruins or get detained at the Castillez Bridge. To catch us if we tried to go around the army and into the mountains.”
