Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he FARC dissidents made them wait, choosing not to show up at La Esmerelda until ten the next morning. The UN team had been up since dawn, waiting tensely under the ranchita ’s covered porch, listening to the rain drum the tin roof. For hours now, they had stared up at the muddy track that led into the dense vegetation of El Castillo.

The landmass rose straight up, a wild tangle of thick vegetation. Rain clouds had stalled over it despite the wet breeze.

Nothing happened quickly in Colombia, Maggie recollected. Being in the wilderness, smelling it, she could imagine how Barnes and Howitz had to feel, cut off from the world, chained like dogs, starved and humiliated. Four months had to seem like a lifetime. Thank God she was only here for two weeks!

Jake’s last communication with the JIC that morning had taken place behind a family-run supply shop down the street. While keeping an eye out for observers, Maggie had overheard him tell his teammates, “Don’t lose us out there, guys.”

Whatever was said to him in return made him frown. “When was this?” He muttered one of his grandfather’s Irish invectives. “Well, you’d better call them off.”

“What’d they say?” she’d demanded as he put his phone away.

“The JUNGLA might be headed this way.”

Her thoughts had flashed back to the Jeep that had driven past them at Barbosa. “What do we do?”

“Nothing. The admiral of Southern Command is reaching out to them personally.”

Hours had passed since Jake’s call. Maggie was considering the possibility that the FARC were standing them up when she spotted them. “Oh, here they come.”

“Where?” Jake and the others strained to see.

Dressed from head to toe in jungle fatigues, the troop of rebels remained virtually invisible against the jungle-like backdrop until they were less than a football field feet away.

“Oh, hello.” Jake finally spotted them. “I count six?—no, eight.”

Boris stood. “We should greet them. Come on, everyone out into the open. Hold your arms away from your bodies and show them your hands are empty.”

Maggie was grateful for her rain jacket as she stepped into the drizzle to wait. Her heart thudded erratically as she inventoried the rebels’ weapons. Two carried pistols on their hips, while the other six had AK-47s that looked decades old, probably supplied by the Russians to Cuba in the eighties. Those rifles probably jammed on a regular basis, if they worked at all. But all the banana-shaped clips bulging in the pockets of their artillery vests gave the impression they were armed to the teeth.

We come in peace . Maggie sought to relay that message in her deportment while battling the urge to assume a fighting stance. A cold sweat breached her pores. Her anxiety only worsened when she noticed the six with AK-47s all looked like teenagers.

The older two were clearly in charge, given the insignia on their camouflage jackets and floppy hats. They marched ahead of the group to greet Boris, who stepped forward, approaching with cautious courtesy and greeting them in excellent Spanish. The three exchanged words, and then Boris waved the team closer.

Maggie suffered the scrutiny of every rebel present but most especially its two leaders, neither one of whom was Salvador Rojas. The elder had a gray handlebar mustache and a barrel chest. His face was like cracked, old leather. Boris introduced him as Comandante Marquez.

His deputy or mondo was called Gallo , meaning “rooster.” Skinny with a face inherited from Incan ancestors, Gallo’s dark, suspicious gaze reminded Maggie of Farid’s. Here was the one to watch out for.

Jake put a reassuring arm around her, drawing el comandante ’s attention to the watch he was wearing. Marquez nudged his deputy, who stepped up to Jake five seconds later and pointed to the watch.

“Quíteselo.” Take it off . “If you want to come with us, you will give it to my leader.”

Jake feigned dismay. “But this was my father’s,” he protested in hesitant Spanish.

Gallo went to pull the wicked-looking pistol from his side holster, and Jake threw his hands up. “Vale, vale.” Okay, okay.

As he surrendered the watch, Maggie marveled at how quickly it had been appropriated. They could only hope it would end up in the hands of General Rojas. Even as Marquez strapped the watch to his own sturdy wrist, he continued to stare at Jake, whose stature clearly made him nervous. He said to his mondo , “Tell him to take off his glasses.”

Gallo approached Jake a second time and made a grab for them.

Jake clapped the glasses to his face.

“Por favor.” He appealed to Boris. “Please, I can’t see without them.”

Boris looked uncomfortable. “Best to do as they say, I think.”

Compelled to defend Jake, Maggie spoke up?—not in French-accented Spanish like Jake’s, but as she’d grown up hearing it. “He can’t see without them.”

Mondo Gallo stared at her a moment, then snatched Jake’s glasses off his face anyway. To Maggie’s dismay, he tossed them down on the muddy ground and stomped on them.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the two sides.

Boris cut his team an anguished look, clearly loath to protest.

“Basta,” Marquez said to his mondo . Enough. Circling the air with a raised finger, he bellowed, “?Regresemos!” and the troop of armed teens swung around to retrace their footsteps.

Mondo Gallo gestured brusquely for the UN team to follow.

Here we go.

Jake gave Maggie’s hand a reassuring squeeze as they began their march into the wilderness. Within just a few steps, it became apparent that they would struggle to keep up. The FARC might be diminutive, but they were used to marching in the mud.

Mondo Gallo railed at them to hurry up. “Apúrense. ?Rápido!”

The mud sucked at Maggie’s boots, and the drizzle dampened her ponytail, but she refused to pull her hood up as that would compromise her hearing. Cutting a sidelong glance at Jake, she found him staring intently at their environment, pretending it was all a blur. She marveled at his acting ability while thanking God that she wasn’t doing this without him.

The vegetation thickened as the terrain rose, creating a tangled wall on either side of the footpath that became an erratic corridor, surrounded by hedges too lush to penetrate. Then, finally, it closed over their heads, swallowing them in a green gloom with no sign of the sky when Maggie glanced up.

The trail grew steeper and narrower the higher they climbed. Rainwater had carved out the middle of the trail, turning it into a V-shaped gulley, murder on Maggie’s ankles, even in her new sturdy boots. She pushed herself, wondering how the others on the team, those who didn’t exercise regularly like her and Jake, would fare.

On the heels of that thought, Bellini and Esme began to fall behind. Boris and then Jake went back for them, forcing Maggie to do likewise. She took the Turkish woman off Boris’s hands while Jake took over Bellini.

Gripping Esme’s elbow, Maggie hauled her to ever higher elevations, with Jake and Bellini struggling behind them. Boris made his way to the front of the pack to ask Marquez if they could slow down, but Maggie could see by the commander’s frown they wouldn’t be offered any preferential treatment.

At last, they burst onto a hacked-out clearing where Maggie breathed a sigh of relief to see six mules dozing in a circle around a mound of cloth sacks, hides quivering to keep the insects off. A ninth rebel stood waiting with them.

Gallo rounded on them. “Come. Stand in a circle and throw your backpacks into the center.”

Oh no. Maggie’s fears were manifesting. The last to toss her pack onto the pile, she lamented the likely loss of her anxiety meds, not to mention the first-aid kits. Jake didn’t look any happier than she was. Without the antibiotic ointment, the incision he’d stitched less than forty-eight hours ago might get infected. Worse still, she might have a nervous breakdown.

Boris spoke up for them, his tone respectful. “ Comandante , may we at least keep our antimalaria tablets and our bug spray?”

“No.” With that single word, Marquez dashed Maggie’s hopes. “ Los medicamentos are for all people, not just capitalistas who can afford them.”

“But you promised the UN we could each keep our passports. We can’t continue if you take those.”

The question appeared to offend Marquez. “Of course, you can keep your passports.”

At least their intel that they got to keep their boots was right, probably since the FARC couldn’t afford to shoe them all, especially not the men. Keeping their pants was a boon, since Maggie’s were water-resistant and covered the Band-Aid on her hip. Jake carried their passports in his side pocket.

As Maggie shrugged off her rain jacket and then her T-shirt, tossing both atop her pack, eight sets of eyes fastened on her slim torso and white jogging bra. Her skin seemed to shrink. She hadn’t felt this vulnerable since running into Farid in the narrow street near her apartment.

Don’t think of that!

Jake’s bare chest garnered Mondo Gallo’s attention. Circling the taller man, he eyed the slabs of muscle that roped Jake’s arms and padded his pectorals.

“You’re strong, eh?”

“I go to the gym.” Jake mimed a chest press, holding a weighted bar.

Gallo punched him lightly in the stomach, and Jake’s tortoise-shell abs flexed. He’d grown chest hair that he hadn’t had when they’d gone swimming at Paris University’s indoor pool. The soft-looking russet-brown hair tapered nicely toward his naval. It was hard not to stare.

The mondo didn’t look convinced. “You know how to shoot a pistola ?”

“No, no.” Jake pointed to his eyes. “I can’t see.”

Gallo stepped closer, staring at him hard. “I’ll be watching you.”

Terrific. They were suspected already.

But then Gallo swung around and shouted at the kids to pick up their stuff and distribute whatever was in the burlap sacks. As the rebels dispersed armloads of clothing, Maggie was startled to realize two of them were females, maybe eighteen years old. One of them communicated an apology in her big brown eyes as she handed Maggie a camouflage jacket and a pea-green T-shirt.

Tunneling into the shirt, Maggie wrinkled her nose at the soapy smell it exuded. At least its soft fabric would protect her from the chafing jacket, which she buttoned up next. They were dressed like the dissidents now, minus the hats, which meant the JUNGLA wouldn’t be able to tell peacekeepers from guerillas. Worse and worse.

Once dressed, they were told to mount the mules, one for each team member. The small concession was heartening. As Jake helped her atop the burlap and leather saddle, Maggie wedged her boots into the stirrups, then turned to watch Jake vault awkwardly onto his mule. As he went to put his boots in the stirrups, he discovered them too short for his long legs and too small to wedge his boots into. He had yet to find a way around his predicament when Gallo swatted their mules into motion.

Whoa! The saddle swayed from side to side. Maggie quickly realized she had to cling to the pommel to keep from falling off. Glancing back at Jake, she found him doing the same thing while also squeezing the mule’s round belly with his thighs. How long could he keep that up?

As they meandered into a patch of bamboo, her gaze fastened on the razor-sharp spears lining either side of the trail. The product of machetes cutting through the undergrowth, those spears would impale anyone who fell off. She gritted her teeth, every muscle in her body rigid. Death by bamboo spike wasn’t any more appealing than a head-on collision in a tunnel.

Maybe Jake had been right about fighting fire with fire. It wasn’t working. But once they left the bamboo behind, she found she could relax her grip and catch her breath. Jake was still in one piece right behind her. So far, so good. If they could ride these mules the rest of the way, they’d be just fine.

As they reached the crest of a hill, gunfire ripped through the fronds and vines, startling their entire entourage.

Maggie’s mule reared. With a stifled scream, she slipped sideways from the saddle. Her foot caught in one stirrup, spilling her upside down. With her head just an inch from the ground, she heard Jake shout her name. A barrage of gunfire drowned it out.

Comandante Marquez roared an order, and his little army scattered.

Jerking her foot free, Maggie fell onto the trail, barely avoiding being trampled by the frightened mule.

Chaos had broken loose around them. Bullets peppered the trees and thumped into the humus-covered earth. The FARC dissidents had started firing back, putting the UN team members, who no longer wore their distinctive white jackets, squarely in the crossfire.

A frightened glance under her mule showed Jake herding the others?—all except for Bellini, who’d slipped in the mud?—toward a low-lying area on the far side of the path. Jake’s bravery roused her own. Not to be outdone, Maggie darted down the trail to help Bellini get up.

“Come on!” As she hauled the Italian in Jake’s direction, the whistle of a mortar shell had her shoving Bellini into the ditch where the team lay.

The next instant was a blur. She hit the ground, and the air knocked clean out of her as Jake landed on top of her. Fighting to inflate her lungs, she felt the earth tremble beneath her. Globs of mud and spongy lichen rained down on them.

“It’s the JUNGLA, isn’t it?”

Jake clapped a hand over her mouth, making her realize that in her stressed state, she’d spoken in English,

Clearly, the SOCOM admiral hadn’t managed to call off the Counter-Narcotics Jungle Company in time. Another barrage of gunfire echoed through the undergrowth, continuing for what seemed an eternity. With Jake draped over her, he was the one who’d be killed or at least horribly maimed if a mortar landed on him.

Oh, no way. Maggie tried to roll over, to squirm out from under him, but he had her thoroughly pinned.

“Reste immobile!” he grated in her ear.

The gunfire intensified. Adolescent voices shouted back and forth.

No way could nine FARC rebels, six of whom were kids, hold off a special forces battalion. When their ammunition ran out, the JUNGLA would swoop in and arrest the survivors?—including the peacekeepers, and the mission to locate Barnes and Howitz would be over before it had scarcely begun.

An eerie silence descended over the forest. Maggie and Jake made eye contact. As suddenly as the gunfire had erupted, it stopped.

The cautious twitter of birds and the screeching of howler monkeys seemed to indicate that the interlopers had departed. Either that or the FARC were all dead.

“Espere,” Jake cautioned as she tried to move. Wait.

“I can’t breathe!” she protested in French.

He eased himself off her slightly while waving at the other team members to stay down.

One by one, FARC rebels began to creep out of the forest. Ten minutes later, Marquez called an order for everyone to rally up so he could assess the damage.

Asserting his leadership role, Boris began ushering the peacekeepers out of the ditch and back onto the trail. Jake clambered to his feet and pulled Maggie up after him, his blue eyes inspecting her from head to toe . “Tu vas bien?” He brushed leaves off her dirt-stained jacket.

Just then, Mondo Gallo slithered into view from higher ground and rushed at them with his pistol raised. “ ?Traidores! They led the JUNGLA straight to us!” He lunged for Boris, gripping the front of his jacket and pressing the muzzle of his pistol into the German’s jaw.

While Boris blanched, both Jake and Charles widened their stances, preparing to keep Gallo from murdering their leader if they had to.

Marquez approached, scowling. “Is this the thanks we get for having you as our guests? The UN is in cahoots with the JUNGLA now?”

In his haste to reason with them, Boris stammered, “ Claro que no . Our agenda is to find a peaceful resolution, so…so the hostages might be freed. We are not at war with you.”

Maggie took offense at Marquez’s accusation. “Why would we jeopardize our own lives, Comandante? We were shot at, too, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Her perfect Spanish, not to mention her defiance, rendered the FARC dumb. They all regarded her in amazement, especially the two young women.

Me and my temper. As Jake’s grip on her arm tightened, Maggie mentally kicked herself. Her pulse ticked upward as Gallo stepped closer to her while sparing Jake a wary glance. “Where are you from?” He had lost his hat in the firefight, making the reason for his name immediately evident. His black hair grew straight up at the top of his head like a rooster’s comb.

She held his stare. “I am French. My mother was Venezuelan.”

“Ah.” His suspicion cleared, giving way to an ugly smile. “Well, any Venezuelan is a friend of ours. Right, Comandante ?”

Marquez agreed, telling Gallo to put his gun away.

Dizzy with relief, Maggie released the breath she was holding as the officers turned away to check on their troops.

It took ages to get moving again. The rebel in charge of the mules was fussing over the one that had been nicked by a bullet. As he staunched the animal’s torn flesh, the peacekeepers sat on the muddy trail and waited. Unaccustomed to such hostilities, Esme and Bellini remained dazed and silent while Boris consoled them with words of solidarity and encouragement.

“Things can only get easier from here out.”

Maggie raised a cynical gaze to Jake and Charles’s carefully blank expressions. They knew as well as she did, things would probably get much worse.

Once the mule was deemed well enough, the climb to the FARC’s secret outpost resumed. Within an hour, the Turkish woman started vomiting?—altitude sickness, Maggie determined, as they’d done nothing but plod into steadily higher elevations.

Too weak to stay in her saddle, Esme was foisted off on Maggie since the men’s mules were already overburdened.

Peering straight up, Maggie marveled at the height of the spiraling wax palms, growing alongside trees she couldn’t name, many with enormous roots keeping them rooted on the sloped terrain. It had to be midafternoon, she guessed, since her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her skin chafed wherever her stiff jacket rubbed it. When they crossed another trail, she asked herself if they were being led in circles to confuse the UN team as to their destination.

The higher they climbed, the more exotic the terrain became. Vines, heavy with fragrant and unfamiliar flowers, coiled up trunks and draped from branches. Dozens of monkeys observed them from on high while brilliantly feathered birds winged through the branches, calling songs she had never heard before. Added to the noise was the croaking of tree frogs and the constant drone of insects. It wasn’t any wonder Maggie didn’t hear the rushing water until they were told to dismount from their rides.

They had come to a muddy creek that had carved a gorge in the middle of the path, making it impossible for the mules to cross.

As she helped Esme to dismount, the animals’ caretaker turned the beasts around and began leading them back downhill. Did that mean they were close to the FARC’s outpost?

Her gaze landed on the contraption that would take them across the creek. Glancing at Jake’s raised eyebrows, Maggie easily read his mind: Nách mór an diabhal thú.

It was a wooden box, large enough for three or four passengers, dangling from a cable and pulley system. Semi-hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat before she could stop it.

Marquez sent the mondo and two teens across to show the peacekeepers how the contraption worked. By the time it was Maggie and Jake’s turn to squeeze into the hip-high box, Maggie was confident the apparatus would hold them. Esme was not. She clung to Maggie, hiding her face against her shoulder. With no choice but to be brave, Maggie caught Jake’s eye. “Fire with fire, darling,” she said in French.

Jake just shook his head.

Once safely on the opposite side, they waited for the others to join them before slogging on. Only now, the going was slower as they had no mules to ride and no more strength to call upon. To make matters worse, Esme was so weak that Maggie practically had to carry her.

It had to be nearing the dinnertime when the trail spilled the weary troop into a partial clearing of relatively level ground. Oh, thank God! They’d finally reached a rebel camp occupied by several more teens, who stood eyeing their gringo visitors.

Three mismatched buildings stood in a thin mist with a firepit in the center and a field behind. The chickens pecking in the mud suggested this had once been the farm of an indigenous campesino , appropriated by the FARC and turned into an outpost, the perimeter of which was guarded by a .50-caliber machine gun, presided over by a grubby teen.

Esme tugged on Maggie’s sleeve. “Are the hostages kept here, do you think?”

“I doubt it.” They wouldn’t let the UN team see the hostages unless they had to.

Marquez waved them toward the tree stumps surrounding the firepit. As they collapsed atop them, the two girl rebels worked to start a fire. A generator began throttling behind the only brick-and-mortar building into which Marquez disappeared.

Maggie’s eyes wandered. In the field at the back of the camp, four crude bull’s-eyes had been mounted to tree trunks, suggesting this was probably a training camp. The brick building was probably for the officers, the stand-alone lean-to for the teenage rebels, so was the long, frond-topped bungalow for them?

An older, light-skinned man stepped out of it. Like them, he was dressed in camouflage with no floppy hat.

Charles gave voice to Maggie’s question. “Who’s that?”

The man’s fair complexion set him apart. Nor was he armed with any weapons.

Commander Marquez, emerging from the brick building, waved the man over and introduced him to the group. “This is Se?or Arias. He will represent the FARC’s interests in the negotiation process.”

Maggie frowned. Couldn’t the FARC represent themselves?

Boris shook the slender man’s hand. “I’m Boris Mayer, with the United Nations.”

“ Mucho gusto .” But the older man didn’t sound enthusiastic.

Marquez gestured toward his dwelling. “You may begin the process now. Go inside.”

Now? They were all exhausted, and they hadn’t eaten since early morning.

Boris responded with confusion. “Just me and Arias, or all of us?”

“Do as you please.” With a shrug, Marquez distanced himself, taking Gallo with him.

Charles stood. “I’d like to be included.”

“Us, too,” said Maggie.

Esme put a hand to her head. “I really don’t feel well enough.”

Boris made a quick decision, requesting Bellini to find somewhere for Esme to rest.

Arias pointed to the bungalow. “You’ll be bunking there where I sleep. There are mats and nets at the door. Help yourself.”

As Bellini led Esme away, the rest of them crowded into the officers’ quarters. Once inside, Maggie searched the cozy interior for clues as to Howitz and Barnes’s location. The bright lightbulb and small refrigerator explained the reason for the generator. Given the bunkbed, only Marquez and Gallo slept here, enjoying cold drinks and a tin roof while their minions had thatched roofs. Clearly even Marxists recognized rank.

As they squeezed into the small space, the Argentine offered the only chair to Boris, who refused it. Taking it for himself, Arias left the rest of them standing.

Speaking Spanish in a lilting Argentinian dialect, he acknowledged them politely as Boris introduced them, then explained that he was a businessman with pipelines in northern Colombia. “I was kidnapped from my office in Medellín to do a job for the FARC.”

Maggie didn’t understand. “Why kidnap a stranger to represent them? It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Boris countered. “Mr. Arias is used to working with money, wire transfers and all that. He knows how much the FARC can get away with asking, how to use technology, and he probably speaks English perfectly, yes?”

As Arias nodded, Maggie made a note never to speak English in his presence.

Boris heaved a sigh for the Argentine’s plight. “Did they say they would release you if you got them rich?”

“Yes.” Arias closed his prim mouth and swallowed hard. “And they promised to kill me if I do not.”

A pained silence filled the small space until Boris broke it. “We will do everything in our power to keep that from happening.”

“Thank you.”

Maggie’s gaze wandered a second time. Several books of Marxist leaning lay atop the crude desk. A pen lay next to a closed notebook, which she longed to crack open. Catching her eye, Jake drew her attention to the handheld radio lying atop an old boom box that occupied the windowsill. Thanks to the repeater on the top of the mountain, the FARC could communicate regardless of their position on the mountain.

“Have you seen the hostages?”

Boris’s question drew Maggie’s attention to the Argentine. “No, no.” He shook his salt-and-pepper curls. “I arrived here only a week ago, and I’ve been at this camp since I was kidnapped.”

“Have you met General Rojas, the rebel commander? Do you know where he stays?”

“No, I haven’t met him yet. I probably know less than you.”

Maggie could tell the man was speaking honestly.

“But you will take our requests to Rojas, right? You’re the middleman.”

Arias spread his hands in a shrug. “I suppose so.”

Maggie shot a frustrated look at Jake. This business of negotiations could take weeks, even months, to accomplish. They had to find Howitz and Barnes before the captives succumbed to starvation or illness, and the batteries for Jake’s phone ran out of power.

Looking depleted, Boris went to sit on one end of the lower bunk, propping his elbows on his knees to keep from bumping his head. “The first thing we will need from you is proof of life.”

Arias nodded, looking overwhelmed. “What would that look like?”

Charles shifted toward the screen door to warn of impending visitors.

“Well, a written message with their signatures would suffice. When we have that much, we will make our offer to the FARC.”

The Argentine thought for a moment. “Then there’s nothing more to discuss right now?”

“No, but we’ll just stay right here until they come for us.” Boris glanced back at the bed, as though tempted to lay back on it and fall asleep. “I hope they’re going to feed us soon.”

Jake bent down to examine the boom box. “What do they listen to out here?”

Arias smiled cynically. “You’ll see. There’s reveille every morning and every afternoon anti-American hour. Commander Marquez opens the window, and the trainees are made to sit and listen to a Cuban Marxist rant about las capitalistas . They have no idea what they’re listening to. Most are just simple campesinos forced to take up arms.”

Maggie pictured the girl who’d given her the clothes and wondered at her circumstances. “Why are there only teenagers here? Where are the rest of the FARC?”

Arias thought for a moment. “I have no idea. But I’m sure there are more.”

Maggie was also sure.

With nothing else to accomplish, they basked in the luxury of electricity until Charles straightened abruptly. “Time’s up.”

Marquez pushed open the screen door and poked his head inside. “All done?”

“Sí.”

As Arias came to his feet, Marquez said to him, “We will travel to my general in the morning.”

“How long until you return?” Boris bravely asked.

Marquez ignored him, gesturing impatiently for everyone to vacate his headquarters. “Out, everyone. Time to eat and then sleep.”

Finally, they would get some food! Maggie’s head spun with hunger.

“Comandante” ?—Boris stuck his neck out again?—“could we possibly get our packs back? We’re not strong like you. Without our medicamentos , we could sicken and die.”

Despite the German’s tact, the commander scoffed at the request. “You think you deserve more than what we have because you’re rich?”

Boris firmed his lips and cut the others an apologetic grimace.

Marquez pointed firmly at the tree stumps. “Sit. Eat.”

The promise of food made Maggie eager to comply. Please let there be a ton of it.

Bellini came out of the bungalow without Esme. “She’s too sick to join us. But you’ll like our accommodations. There’s room for all of us and relative privacy.”

When they were finally served, Maggie eyed with disappointment the contents of the wooden bowl she was given, filled with nothing but rice and no silverware with which to eat it. Her drink was a sweet beverage she had tasted in her youth. “What’s this called?” she asked the same girl who’d given her the clothes she wore.

“ Agua panela , se?ora. Boiled sugar cane and water.” With a shy smile, she darted away.

Forcing herself not to wolf down her dinner, Maggie savored each little bite of rice.

Boris, who finished first, said that he would check on Esme, and Bellini followed him, taking an extra cup of agua panela for her.

Marquez had retreated into his quarters, and Gallo had gone to rant at a young rebel for some unknown trespass. Left alone, Charles asked them in French, “So where do you think we are?”

Jake glanced up at the darkening sky. “Given where the sun went down, I’d say the west side of El Castillo, at an altitude of maybe ten or eleven thousand feet.”

Charles nodded. “I agree.”

Maggie noted while the female rebels were hard at work cleaning up after their meal, the boys were subjected to Gallo’s long-winded lecture.

“Well”?—Charles pushed to his feet, handing his cup and bowl to the elder girl?—“let’s get some sleep. Gracias, se?oritas.”

Following his lead, with Jake right behind her, Maggie crossed toward the bungalow, pleased they would be sleeping off the ground. Made of sturdy bamboo, all lashed together and topped by palm fronds, she prayed the bungalow was waterproof. Mats and blankets had been left out for them on the small veranda. Stepping into the cool interior, it took Maggie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. When they did, she could see a long, protected walkway leading to five or six cubicles, each divided from the other by the same bamboo blinds that served as exterior walls, keeping out the bugs.

Coursing the walkway on one side, they passed the cubicles occupied by Arias and the other team members. After peeking into the last two available spaces, Charles waved her and Jake toward the last one while he took the one beside them.

When Maggie peeked out the back flap, Charles’s reason for placing them here became apparent. From this cubicle, she and Jake could slip out the rear of the building and into the wilderness without being observed by anyone.

As she tossed down the mat she’d picked up at the entrance, Jake joined her, laying his mat right alongside hers. Maggie eyed their sleeping arrangement with mixed anticipation and concern. Could she sleep next to Jake for two weeks and not make a fool of herself?

As she stood there brooding, he shook out a blanket, then fluffed out the mosquito netting hanging from a hook on the bamboo crossbeam until it surrounded their bed like a tent. How cozy.

As the others settled down with groans of relief, Jake gestured for Maggie to remove her boots and socks. “Take off anything that’s wet.” Thankfully, her water-resistant pants had dried by the fire, requiring her to strip only to her jog bra, as she had earlier that day.

Darting self-consciously under the mosquito net, she reclined on the far side of the mat, draping half of the blanket over her. On the other side of the diaphanous netting, Jake was checking his chest and armpits?—looking for parasites, she realized. Gross . Surreptitiously, she did the same, searching by feel as she regarded his immensely broad back. The effort it must have taken him to pack on so much muscle impressed her.

When he dropped his trousers unexpectedly, she rolled away to keep from becoming mesmerized. Grown-up Jake looked nothing like he had when they’d gone swimming in the university pool back in Paris. If skinny Jake could light her fire, imagine what grown-up Jake could do.

Chill out, Maggie. Act professional.

As he lowered himself onto the mat and joined her under the blanket, she scooted way over, sending him nonverbal cues that she didn’t need him to hold her as he had the previous night in La Esmeralda. She wasn’t afraid anymore. But her arm would go numb in this position.

Maggie spared a thought for her pillow back home. Then, as her hip began to ache, she longed for her mattress. She’d be a lot more comfortable rolling to her other side and using Jake’s chest for a pillow.

Don’t do it. You’ll only get used to it.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she heaved a long sigh. Just go to sleep . Between the endless climb and the deficit of calories, she felt like a wet towel, wrung out and left to dry. That was her last thought as she tumbled toward oblivion.