“I’ll do that.”
Sloane scowled and sawed through the ropes. The blade was sharp and as soon as the job was done, Sloane dropped the machete. Marisol considered taking it herself, but instead she snatched up her beloved Colt.
They heard tires crunching outside and Marisol was on her feet. She grabbed Sloane’s hand and they rushed headlong toward the door and freedom.
Bright white light cut through the breaks in the wall as the car turned toward their building, but by then the two fugitives were on their way through the outer room. A boxy TV sat precariously on a wooden crate, a soccer game flashing silently to the empty room. Marisol didn’t stop to check for weapons. Their time was running out and she had to retrace the steps she’d taken with a bag over her head hours ago.
They burst out of the building, Sloane running barefoot with surprising agility. Just as Marisol suspected, the van still sat in front with the cargo doors facing the entrance. Sloane didn’t need direction, she dropped Marisol’s hand and sprinted to the passenger’s door.
As Marisol wrenched the driver’s door open and slipped into the seat, she turned toward the car skidding to a halt at the far corner of the building. Hulk jumped out before the tires stopped, locking his eyes on Marisol as she turned the van’s key. The engine roared, covering his shout. The back passenger door of Hulk’s car opened and Marisol saw the face she had been dreading.
Judging by his silver hair, The Bishop was in his late fifties. His broad, flat face had a thin mustache and a look of cold fury. He was not screaming in rage like Hulk. He wasn’t barking instructions or pointing. He simply stared into Marisol’s eyes as she stared back and in them she saw her own death. She became aware of Sloane, hidden by the night shadows behind her and determined that this evil man would not see her face.
The man’s lip twisted in a snarl and Marisol slammed her foot into the gas pedal. She heard a spray of dirt and rocks behind them as the van sped off into the inky night.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Hey Gray.”
“Marisol, you wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“Who do we know in Bogota?”
“No one friendly.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The conversation lagged as they both listened to the watery crackle of static on the line. Marisol wasn’t surprised by the bad connection. She stood behind the counter of a run-down service station on the edge of nowhere. She leaned to get a view out the side door she had banged on a few minutes ago, waking the proprietor and his wife. Morning was rapidly approaching, the sun spilling pale light over the sleepy village. She couldn’t see the van hidden in the low scrub, and that made her a fraction more comfortable.
The proprietor adjusted his seat, picking at his teeth with a worn toothpick and studiously ignoring her presence. People in this area had become very used to pretending they didn’t see things. Pretending they didn’t hear things.
A girl of maybe four or five sat on the floor of the shop, playing with a doll. She was the only clean thing in the place and her father was keeping a protective eye on her though he feigned indifference well. His concern and his watchfulness made Marisol trust him in a way she hadn’t before.
“Glad you’re alive, boss.”
“Don’t crack the champagne yet. I’m a long way from safe.”
“Word is Governor Sloane was involved in some sort of situation last night, but the cops are keeping everything real quiet.” He paused, probably waiting for her to comment. When she didn’t offer one, he took a more direct route. “You wouldn’t know nothing about that, would you?”
Marisol thought it wise to redirect the conversation. “Do you have eyes on Dominique?”
There was a split second of silence on the line and Marisol’s heart stopped and started a dozen times during that second. What if Jordan had figured out Dominique’s importance once she’d eliminated Sloane as a potential handler?
“Funny you should mention it,” he said. “She stopped by last night looking for you.”
“Where is she now?”
“Upstairs in your place. Says it feels like a hotel. Maybe you oughta finish moving in.”
“Send her up some breakfast and ask her to wait for me.”
There was an impatient sneer in Gray’s voice when he replied, “She put in an order last night. Seems to think your place comes with room service.”
Marisol smiled despite herself. Her mind at ease about Dominique’s safety, she turned back to securing her own. “How soon can you get down here?”
“Let me round up some boys and…”
“No. No boys. Come alone and come quiet.”
“Extraction?”
“Yeah.”
“Marisol, I think we should have backup. That’s hostile territory.”
“I said no.”
A short, plump woman with a kind smile and one eye glazed with cataract despite her young age emerged from the back of the store.
“Keep your cell on you. I’ll call in two hours and you better be in the air by then.”
He said something else, but she dropped the phone back into the cradle. The little woman stalked between the shelves with efficient if ungraceful movements, grabbing items and dropping them into a net bag. The man behind the counter split his wary gaze between his wife and daughter, his shoulders pinching in concern.
Marisol bent and untied her right boot. Each movement sent a cascade of pain through her body, but it was duller now. Aches more than pains really. Peeling the boot off, she slid out the false bottom and retrieved the stash of bills concealed inside. She held out the wad to the woman when she approached, holding out the bag to Marisol.
Looking concernedly at Marisol’s face she tried to wave it off. Her husband flinched but said nothing. Marisol insisted, pressing the money with a few words of thanks into the woman’s pillow-soft palm. She turned, but the woman grabbed her arm and held up her forefinger before slipping behind the counter. Marisol caught the roll of the man’s eyes, but his wife missed it.
After some rummaging, she popped up with a jar in her hand. It looked like some kind of paste, dark green and speckled with something brown. She tried to explain to Marisol what it was, but her words were a mixture of Spanish and an indigenous dialect. Marisol guessed she was at least part Muisca, the tribe most common in this part of Colombia, but she couldn’t be sure. All she understood was that this paste would help her wounds. She thought the woman said something about reducing swelling, but it was hard to tell.
Marisol tucked the jar into the pocket of her leather jacket and with another warm round of appreciation to the store owners, picked up the net bag and a can of gasoline, then edged to the door. She was keenly aware of how long she had been in the building and didn’t want to bring these people harm or be caught herself. Not when she and Sloane were this close to freedom.
The village boasted little modern convenience, so the residents would most likely be up with the sun. She strolled along the road, close to the tree line, and walked past the van’s hiding spot without breaking stride. She felt the store owner’s eyes on her back and, though she was grateful, she couldn’t rely on him to keep her secrets if danger rolled down on his family. Eventually someone would ask about two American women in a van. If he never saw Sloane or the van, they might leave him alone.
Several hundred yards past the van, Marisol turned off the road into the cover of scrub. All too aware of the potential for prying eyes watching from the hills, she ducked behind a low tree. She waited for a long moment, listening for pursuing footsteps. Hearing nothing, she picked her way back under the cover of vegetation. It was a longer, rougher route and Marisol felt every inch of it in her tortured body, but she kept walking at a half-crouch.
Marisol slipped inside the driver’s door, dropping the supplies on the empty passenger seat. As she fired the engine into life, Sloane came crawling up from the back, trying to slip into the front with her. Marisol held out a restraining hand,
keeping her eyes fixed on the dirty windshield. If anyone was watching she didn’t want them to see her respond.
“Stay down and out of sight.”
“But it’s…”
“Someone may be watching,” She said to the dashboard, her lips barely moving. “I don’t think they saw you back at the compound. I don’t want them to see you now.”
“They knew I was there. Where would they think I’ve gone?”
“To hell for all I care. I’m not giving them proof. Besides, there’s every chance Jordan didn’t tell anyone she’d made the mistake of kidnapping a United States Governor and transporting her out of the country.”
Sloane may have wanted to argue the point further, but Marisol threw the van into gear and rolled out onto the main road. When she dropped a pair of simple, woven sandals on the floor Sloane took them with her back into the cargo space while Marisol drove.
For hours she wove her way through one small, mountain community to another. If she headed straight to Bogota, they’d track her down immediately. The enemy would expect a quick sprint for safety and they knew the area far better than she did. Instead of doing the expected, she would find a place to hide out until Gray could arrive. They would make their way to the city under cover of night.
When the sun was directly overhead and the village they entered looked like it was deep in the grip of siesta, Marisol slowed the van and scanned the buildings. Like many communities here in the Eastern Hills, there were a good number of ramshackle buildings that may or may not be occupied. She spotted her target near the far end of town.
She picked up speed again as she passed the building and continued out into the countryside and she spotted an appropriate stand of trees. She wedged the vehicle between them and left the keys in the ignition, sparing a moment to refill the gas tank in case a quick getaway was necessary. She heard Sloane opening the rear door as she collected the shopping bag and her Colt. Tucking her gun into the band of her pants, she put her lips close to Sloane’s ear and whispered to her to follow, quickly and quietly.
The hike back to town was arduous if uneventful. Marisol had no difficulty locating the building with its spacious shed out back. Slipping inside, she saw that it had actually been a machine shop before it was abandoned, which accounted for its size. It was almost as large as the house, though, unlike the house, the shed’s roof was intact.
Making her way to the back of the shop, Marisol found a room tucked away in the corner of the building. Like everything else, it was covered in a thick layer of dust. The mattress on the floor looked clean enough and did not appear to harbor any mice, but she flipped it to be certain and nothing scurried out. It fell with a flop, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
Near the mattress was an old couch covered in a dusty sheet, as was the rest of the sparse furniture. She whipped the sheet off quickly enough that most of the dust fell on the ground rather than the couch and tossed it aside. It fluttered down to rest, clean side up, on the mattress. The day was warm enough, even here in the mountains, that she doubted they would need cover while they slept. She poked at the cushions of the couch but didn’t feel anything move.
As soon as the couch was uncovered, Sloane collapsed onto it. Sweat stained the high neckline of her dress and down the zipper on its back. She looked exhausted, but Marisol was pleased to see she was not cracking. Killing for the first time wasn’t easy, particularly for someone like Brin, but it didn’t seem to have hit her yet. This exhaustion was physical, not emotional.
Marisol settled down next to her and unpacked the bag. The woman had managed to fit a surprising number of useful supplies into it. On top was a pair of aluminum trays with paper lids, the heat was long gone from them, but the smell of hearty beans and pungent rice made her mouth water. She set the trays aside for now, but they would get her full attention soon enough.
Next out of the bag were several bottles of water, some fresh fruit she didn’t take the time to identify, packs of bandages and a rattling bottle she sincerely hoped held painkillers. She could’ve wished for a bottle of tequila and maybe even a toothbrush, but she would take what she could get. She discarded everything in favor of what she needed most—a burner cell phone still held in its bubble packaging.
“Eat something,” Marisol said, attacking the phone packaging.
Sloane snatched it from her and set it on the floor, putting herself between it and Marisol. She tore open the wrapping on a pack of bandages and glared at her companion. “I’m cleaning you up, then we can eat.”
Marisol made a lunge for the phone, but Sloane moved with her. Their bodies nearly collided before Marisol stopped. She scowled, looking into Sloane’s eyes. It was a look that had cowed grown men, but it had no effect on Sloane. She stared back, still determined, still calm.
“I have to make a call first.”
“After I clean you up.”
It wasn’t a suggestion or a compromise. It was the closest thing to an order Marisol had heard in fifteen years. Her eyebrow shot up of its own accord. She considered a sarcastic reply, but the words died on her tongue. Considering nearly every inch of her body varied between sore and downright agony, she let the order stand. She sat back against the couch and pulled the bottle of green paste from her jacket pocket, handing it to Sloane.
“What’s this?”
Marisol shook a couple pills from the bottle and washed them down with lukewarm water. “Medicine.”
“What kind?”
Marisol shrugged and Sloane snatched the bottle from her, using it to wash her hands before unscrewing the jar’s lid. The scent hit her immediately, cool and grassy with the bite of peppers and an herbaceous earthiness. The aroma alone made her relax. Sloane dipped two fingers into the jar, pulling up a scoop of paste and testing its texture between her fingers.
“It’s like sand,” she said, concern cutting lines into her weary face. “It might hurt when I rub it in.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Sloane reached out, smearing the paste onto Marisol’s right cheek. It did feel like sand at first and her skin, stretched and puffy with bruising, protested. After a moment of contact, however, the paste cooled the angry sting and even the aching soon faded. Marisol closed her eyes and couldn’t hold back a sigh.
“Does it hurt? I can stop.”
“No,” Marisol replied, her muscles turning to jelly. “It’s good. Don’t stop.”
Sloane’s touch was gentle as it spread the miracle salve over her cheek and jaw. As she massaged the paste in, her fingers on Marisol’s skin brought back heat. The pain leaked away and Marisol turned her entire focus to Sloane’s touch. Her tenderness and her proximity lit a fire throughout Marisol’s body, far from where their skin met. She moved down Marisol’s neck, dipping below her shirt collar following a line of rope burn.
Marisol shrugged out of her jacket, draping it across the back of the couch, and Sloane tended to the cuts on her arm.
When she felt the tail of her shirt lift, Marisol’s eyes flew open. Sloane pushed the T-shirt up, revealing a set of bruises across her abdomen that shocked and sickened Marisol. It was one thing to know the signs of her torture existed, it was another entirely to see them marking her own skin. Sloane’s focus was entirely on the jar of paste, scooping up another heap.
Though she had time to prepare, Marisol’s abs still clenched involuntarily at the press of Sloane’s fingers against her skin. She looked up anxiously, but Marisol nodded and she went back to work. She couldn’t very well explain that it wasn’t pain that had caused the reaction, but rather the vision of Sloane rubbing her stomach. She closed her eyes again, letting the rippling chill from the paste distract her from the fire in her belly. She nearly moaned when Sloane’s fingertips brushed against the waistband of her leather pants.
“Where else?”
Marisol, lost in thoughts of Sabrina Sloane’s fingers and her waistband, croaked, “What?”
“Where else are you hurting?” There was an edge of str
ain to Sloane’s voice. “Didn’t she…um, your back?”
“Right. Yeah.”
Marisol turned around, leaning over the arm of the couch, and pulled her T-shirt up around her neck. It caught on her bra for a moment, then gave way and settled against her shoulders. This time Marisol heard Sloane’s quiet hiss, and she knew Jordan’s fun with a belt and a length of discarded rope had left behind something unpleasant. She felt Sloane slide forward on the cushions and a moment later her skin was on Marisol’s again. Either the effect of the paste was wearing off, or Marisol was having a harder time ignoring Sloane’s touch. The sensation was far less clinical than it should have been.
While coating her upper back, Sloane asked in a small voice, “Did you really want to have drinks with me? When you asked me out at the coffee shop?”
“Of course I did. That’s why I asked.”
“So I wasn’t some assignment from the NSA?”
“An assignment?”
Sloane’s fingers stilled, resting lightly against her spine. Marisol held the sensation, willing the memory to last a lifetime.
Finally, Sloane continued, “Did the NSA ask you to get close to me? Did you save my life under orders?”
Marisol turned, but couldn’t see Sloane’s face over her shoulder. All she could see was the slope of her thigh and the long line of her outstretched arm. Even this shuttered glimpse, added to the doubt in her voice, was enough to show Marisol how worried she was. How hopeful.
“I didn’t know who you were that day, Brin.” Her own hope had evaporated with the cop who’d glared at her across the courthouse steps and then whispered to Sloane. That had sent Marisol home alone that night. “Not any more than you knew who I was.”
“And after?”
Marisol turned back around, letting her head fall against her forearms resting on the couch. “No one in Washington knows how I feel about you. If they did, I’d be worthless to them.”
Sloane’s hand moved again, smearing the paste in a thin streak down Marisol’s spine. “Why?”
Queen of Humbolt Page 16
