Eye of the Storm

by Amy McKinley

  She pulled the back of his T-shirt down then carefully lowered him as much as she could. Picking up one arm, then the other, scrutinizing each of them. When she slid the front of his shirt up, she saw a rainbow of bruises, but no holes.

  With nothing else to stich or clean, she yanked his shirt down and inspected his pants for any signs of injury to his skin beneath. Those, she refused to remove. His ankles and calves looked terrible. They’d been twisted in the ropes, but maybe they’d be okay after she doused them with antibacterial salve. It took a little bit of time, but she got his boots and socks off, then set them underneath his hammock to dry as much as they could.

  The pack that’d been strapped to his chest, and which hung on the inside of their fort, drew her attention, and she opened it out of curiosity. She wondered what he had planned to do. Inside held C4 plastic explosives, what looked like detonators, some MREs—military food packets—and water. Shit, Hannah and I tossed that around.

  Whipping out one of the MREs, she tore the end and swallowed down the unusual concoction. Food was food, and she planned to survive. Taking his full canteen and hers, she placed them in her pack too, just in case.

  Her hands skimmed along his pants, looking for weapons. She’d already removed the ones strapped to his arm and calf and concealed in his boot—he was a walking arsenal. If she was smart, she’d leave him, taking everything she could use. But she wouldn’t, not yet. The promise held her—he held her. Damn this misplaced loyalty. It’d landed her in a bad spot some time ago, too. She was fixing that, though. Hopefully this won’t prove to be another detrimental mistake.

  Without meaning to, she found herself staring at his face. He was beautiful—not in a sweet, boy-next-door way, but in a rugged, take-charge kind of way. His chin was strong and his features chiseled. That’s what got me in trouble before—a charming boy who was easy on the eyes. Brows furrowing, she realized how stupid she was being. She had to maintain perspective. Sleep was what she needed.

  There was nothing she could do but wait until he woke. Worried about his risk of infection, she didn’t waste time before giving him antibiotics. She grabbed the shot she’d set aside earlier, tugged the waistband of his pants down a little, and gave him the shot in the top portion of his butt.

  Done with everything she could think of doing, she grabbed her pack and hung it next to Chris’s, along with the extra guerrilla pack they had. As soon as she woke up, she would search him further. She’d already taken two guns and several knives off him. One of the handguns rested securely in her palm, the other inside her bag.

  As her eyes drifted closed to the chorus of rumbling thunder and raindrops, she pacified herself with the weapons she’d armed herself with. She wouldn’t be used by anyone. If Chris made one single move against her, she’d shoot him.

  Chapter 6

  Chris

  Vertigo spun the world in a crazy circle as he peeled his swollen tongue from the roof of his mouth. He blinked. A shaft of light shone through the dark—is that the moon?

  His eyes were dry as sandpaper, and he struggled to see where he was, wondering why sweat trickled down his face. Or is it blood? Pain hammered his body with an equal-opportunity vendetta of torture.

  Pressure on his thigh drew his unstable gaze, and he breathed through his queasiness. Clarity came, if only for a few seconds. In that miraculous gift, he registered the reason for the slight weight pressing against his leg. A woman leaned forward, and the light bathed her in its soft, silvery glow. He drank in what details he could. She had an exotic face, a small build, and large amber eyes that were wide with concern.

  His stomach heaved, and his rollercoaster ride resumed, taking him back under, where dark enveloped him and again freed him from the agony of being awake.

  Mari

  Every single noise stole sleep from Mari. For hours, she tried to shut her eyes, but each new sound, rustling, or twigs breaking had her lurching out of her hammock, gun in hand, peering through small gaps in the leaves for threats. Nothing eased her exhausted body and mind, which stayed in a state of constant vigilance. It was still the dark of night, maybe an hour or two before sunrise, when she decided rest was a lost cause.

  She found herself studying Chris, looking for clues in every sharp angle and plane of him that might tell her why he was there. She must have risen to check on him several times already. Aside from a light fluttering of his eyelids, he hadn’t fully regained consciousness. Eventually she succumbed to sleep, hypnotized by the rise and fall of his impressive chest.

  Hours later, the rain had stopped, and the pressure on her bladder yanked her from her unconscious state. Her hands, one still tightly gripping the gun, rose above her head, and she stretched. It was for the best she got up, even though she knew everything had changed. She’d backtracked and taken on the added risk of nursing Chris back to health. The longer they remained tucked in their small hideaway, the more she would grow accustomed to his presence, and she’d want him to stay with her against what she very well might face—should he help her.

  Still, there was a chance he wouldn’t do what Hannah said he’d do. He might not help her. It was a risk. Hannah seemed to know him best—but Mari barely trusted the woman. And when Chris had briefly woken, he’d reacted with violence at the sight of her. She might need to do or say something extreme in order to garner his protection to get her to safety. At this point, she’d do whatever she had to do.

  With difficulty, she flopped onto her side in the hammock. She was done fighting the inevitable pull as she studied his face and the strong line of his jaw. What are you doing here? He’s from the States, so what reason did he have for going through the Darien Gap, quite possibly on his way to cross the Panamanian border?

  A thick growth of dark hair dusted over his angular features, as it must have been a day or two since he’d shaved. Maybe that was an indication of how long he’d been in the jungle.

  Forcing herself to rest her eyes, she listened to the sounds of the forest and the man next to her breathing. They didn’t have a lot of time.

  Teeth clenched, she shoved her thoughts of impending danger away. The guerrillas could find them, and there were others after her—and apparently him, as well—but there was nothing she could do about it.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes, reached across the small space, and brushed a gentle hand over his forehead, which was still hot but not feverish. He was healing. The more time they could spare, the better he would be. When morning came, she’d check his wound and try to get him to drink some water.

  A low growl sounded, and she was surprised it was from her stomach. Too tired to do anything about it, she shut her eyes, willing sleep to come again. Soon, he would wake, and then she’d have her answers.

  Chris

  Drawing strength from deep within himself, he forced his eyes open, blinking against the soft light that spilled from all around him. His fingers curled around the bed he lay in. Rope. Information filtered in, and he pieced it together to determine it must be a hammock of sorts. He wasn’t restrained and knew no other type of rope bed.

  A soft rustle sounded to his left, but he couldn’t turn his head because the vertigo was too great. The gentle touch at his head made him want to sigh, and he would have, if he trusted himself not to throw up, given how his stomach cramped and rolled.

  She leaned over him, and he was able to see her better this time. Do I know her? The edges of his vision were fuzzy, but he watched her closely as she gifted him with a soft smile.

  “You’re doing great. The bleeding has stopped. I’m just going to tape another bandage to your head to keep it clean.”

  He felt the pressure of her fingers on his forehead while she smoothed the edges of the gauze and tape she’d just put on him. Questions flooded his mind, but his grip on consciousness was precarious. Instead, he fought to pay attention to her and the kindness she showed him.

  Something very bad must have happened.

  Her small hand slipped behind h
is head, and she helped him lean forward. The strange room he was in tilted, but the water she drizzled into his mouth centered him. With greed, he swallowed it down.

  “Easy. We want to keep it down this time.”

  This time? He raised his gaze to hers, and everything in him stilled.

  Chapter 7

  Chris

  Sounds echoed as if someone had cranked the volume all the way up. Chris’s head ached and spun. Nausea hit him in waves. Intense heat and humidity pressed against him like a suffocating blanket. With great effort, he slitted his eyes open, wary of the light’s effects on his out-of-control headache. What did I do last night?

  The world slowly came into focus, inch by fuzzy inch. With a grunt, he tried to clear his throat as his eyes tracked the strange leaf canopy under which he lay. He heard a small intake of air to his side, which sent alarm through him. He wasn’t alone. Instinctively, he reached for his gun. Shit, nothing’s there. Taking a chance, he turned his head to where he sensed the noise came from.

  The barrel of a gun pointed at him, and he reacted. Lurching forward, he grabbed the side of the weapon with one hand, the other slamming into a small wrist as he wrenched it away. Flipping it around just as fast, he aimed it at her.

  Her?

  He blinked. Her hand jerked back.

  With his arms still straight out and the gun locked in his palm, his body swayed in the netting he reclined in. The only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground was her shoulder, which he’d snaked a hand out to grasp. He waited for her features to clear before his swimming vision.

  Silence fell between them. He stared into wide brown eyes framed by thick, sooty lashes. They were details he hadn’t gotten quite right while he was so out of it. She was beautiful but deadly—not the impression he’d received the other times he’d woken.

  Sparing a second, he swung his gaze away to make sure it was just the two of them and that his mind hadn’t played any other tricks on him. That was a mistake, as his world teetered on a crazy carousel. When he looked back at her, he took a few steadying breaths but still drew a complete blank as to who she was. Do I know her?

  His head pounded, driving home the other problem he faced—he was injured and had no idea what’d happened. Every inch of his being stilled as he sized up the situation and held her under the full weight of his stare. Who is she? She wore an unbuttoned long-sleeve tan shirt over a tight black tank top, and her dark, mahogany hair was pulled back from her face. Nothing about her clothes told him what he needed to know.

  The scowl that took residence on her face was cute, but the knife in her hand, not so much.

  He worked to puzzle out the details of his predicament. Where the fuck am I? Something was very wrong, and he needed to assess what to do. “Who are you?”

  She pursed her lips, and a calculating gleam flashed in her eyes as she glared at him. “You don’t know?”

  The air between them was charged. She shifted, and he knew exactly what she was planning. There had to be another weapon close by, in addition to the knife. “Hands where I can see them,” he growled.

  In slow increments, she lifted her hands in front of her, palms up, knife pressed flat against one and held secure with her thumb. The blade clinked against the band of a ring on her right hand.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time. Who are you?”

  His gaze dropped to follow the movement in her neck as she notched her chin higher and swallowed. “You don’t remember?”

  “Obviously not. If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.” Sweat ran down his face in rivulets, and it took all his strength to keep the gun steady.

  A hard glint entered her expressive eyes just before she cleared her throat. “Maybe you should tell me why you’re here?” Her words whipped out of her mouth, which she’d pressed into an angry little line. As her statement settled in, a flash of confusion washed over him at the direction of her question. Now that he was coherent, as opposed to before, she brought up the one point that’d been dancing through his paranoid state in a game of hide-and-seek. Why am I here? His mind frantically tried to jump back, but it was as if a thick, dark wall stood in his way. There was nothing, just a black void. Holy hell. Darting his gaze all around them, he again took in the sounds of a jungle and the intense heat. With determination, he clamped down hard on the panic that rose.

  Soft morning light filtered through the leaves and played among the warm highlights of her hair. “You don’t know, do you? Do you remember anything?”

  He growled, and her face paled.

  “I guess you don’t remember anything.” Her hands fluttered around her thighs, rubbing along the front of her pants. Seconds passed, and she seemed to come to a decision. “Mari. That’s my name.” She cleared her throat and stood taller. “And… I’m your wife.”

  Pretty. That’d been one of his first thoughts when he’d woken to the stunning brunette hovering over him. Her name fit. Wait, what the hell had she said? His wife?

  His eyes narrowed on her as he racked his brain, while pain sliced through him like a knife. There was nothing, not a goddamn thing, where his memories, his past, should be. I don’t even know my name. Alarm rolled through him in a hot wave.

  Locking his gaze on hers, he forced his body to release some of the tension, and chose to rely on his gut instincts instead. “Why are you holding a gun on me if you’re my wife?” Another image—but that of a blonde—swam into his mind, and he wondered who she was. Fury and betrayal swarmed to the forefront at the thought of that woman. Pushing the problem aside to revisit later, he paid attention to Mari. Then again, maybe it was a good time, after all. “Why aren’t you blonde?”

  Color flooded her face, and her hand shot out, smacking him in the shoulder. A string of Spanish followed, and she sneered. “Typical man.”

  No—he would prefer her, not the blonde. But my wife?

  “The gun, I had that pointed on you because you reached for where you had it. You were going to pull it on me!” She slammed a hand on her jutted-out hip, irritation all over her face. “And I can’t believe you don’t remember me, Chris. Actually, I’m not surprised.”

  Chris. So that was his name. It felt right. “And why is that?”

  “Why?” Again, a string of Spanish blasted through the air, so fast he struggled to keep up with it. What he did catch was her anger.

  “Because you abandoned me. I was vulnerable.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin out. “One minute, you confessed you were leaving the military, and then you never returned. I had no idea if you were alive, or if you joined the guerrillas. There was no word from you.”

  He lowered the gun and ran a finger over where a wedding band would’ve sat. There was no indentation. Still, something about marriage and commitment seemed familiar and right, and it brought forth a swirl of memories that were just out of his reach. What seeped from the locked box of his past was a sense of longing, loss, and pain at the mere thought of marriage. Something rang true from her words. It could be that she told the truth. “Why is the ring on your right hand?”

  “Because I assumed you were dead.” Her voice fell flat. While he stared at her, she switched it over to her left ring finger. She moved close and then skimmed her fingers along his hairline.

  He caught her wrist and pulled it down, eliminating the distraction of her touch. “Why are we here? Where are we?”

  “I have no idea why you’re here. The only reason I can think of is that you joined forces with the guerrillas. That would explain why you left me without a word. I’ve heard about that happening—loved ones leave their families all the time. Someone’s husband or brother would disappear after getting into trouble, then no word back to the family, ever. No body found, either. It makes sense.”

  “I doubt that,” he said roughly. Despite the nausea churning in his gut, he held still, studying her every movement and expression. The slight touch of their hands had singed and distracted him. “If we were married, there’d
be no way I’d leave you unprotected.” What looked like relief flashed in her eyes so quickly that he wasn’t sure if he imagined it before she pinched her lips closed.

  “If we were married?” She huffed. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It was a whirlwind— an impulse—our time together. And, I’m not sure why you’re here. Well, maybe it’s because of her. The woman who helped me, you recognized her. You know, the blonde? Is that why you left me—for her?”

  The blonde. No. There was no way he would have skipped out on his wife to be with that woman. Something about the other woman evoked a deep rage. He shoved that aside to work with the only thing he knew—what Mari told him. “Where are we?”

  She lifted a shoulder and let it drop, her features resolved. “I don’t really know anymore. We’re by the Atrato River. As to what territory we’ve crossed into, I’m not sure. It’s probably still the guerrillas’.”

  The familiarity of the name she’d told him settled into his murky brain, and he placed it. “South America?”

  She furrowed her brows. “Well, yeah. The Darien Gap, to be specific. Are you alright?”

  “Fine,” he said between clenched teeth. The gleam that again appeared in her eyes sent alarm bells screaming through his head.

  “What were you doing here, Chris?”

  His mouth opened, only to close again, because the answer he’d planned on giving her wasn’t there. Fuck! He couldn’t remember a thing. His head pounded. Beyond the two women screaming, he had no memories. He faced a terrifying thought: amnesia. God willing, it’ll be temporary.

  He scanned their surroundings, his clothes, and her face. Trying to recall what happened shot a volley of pain through his head. Either she’d done something to him—maybe drugged him—or he’d hit his head extremely hard. His entire body ached. “What did you give me?”