Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A rooster crowed, and Maggie’s eyes sprang open. The ghostly shimmer of the mosquito netting reminded her that she was in a bungalow, way up on El Castillo, pretending to be a UN peacekeeper while snugged up against her college sweetheart, to whom she grew more attached by the day.

As with the previous night, she must have rolled toward him and moved closer until her head was on Jake’s chest. They were tangled together now like they’d been married all this time. And, for the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

Sleeping by his side, pretending to be married to him?—it was so much easier than she’d thought it would be. It also filled her with something she hadn’t realized she was missing.

Imagine doing this assignment without Jake. She would have slid down the mountain yesterday and never made it back. But they had made it back, just in time to hear Maife and Ixtabel?—Maggie’d learned their names at supper?—sing as sweetly as angels. Those two had cooked another disappointing meal of rice for all the mouths in the camp. Jake had tried offering Maggie a portion of his bowl, which, of course, she’d refused.

He was willing to die for her, if he had to.

In that instant, a memory, long repressed, returned to her unbidden. Following her return from Paris, she had cried herself to sleep each night. Jake had been her closest friend. The void in her life had seemed too deep to cope with.

Imagine if she’d received the texts he’d sent. The entire course of her life would have changed as she attempted to keep their bond alive. Ironically, even after all this time, the bond was still there.

The familiar groan of Gallo’s door brought Maggie’s head up. Through the thin slats of the bamboo blinds at her feet, she could tell the mondo was carrying a lantern to the far side of camp where a young rebel manned the .50-caliber machine gun.

A minute later, Gallo snarled at the youth to wake up. Maggie waited for him to carry his lantern back to his quarters, but rather than grow brighter, the light of the lantern faded completely.

Had Gallo left the camp? He was probably just heeding the call of nature. She listened for his return, but after what had to be five minutes, the camp remained quiet. Gallo’s screen door never opened again, which meant the officers’ quarters stood empty, as Marquez was still away with Arias.

Now was the perfect opportunity to examine that notebook on the officers’ desk.

Recalling Jake’s lecture the previous day about being partners, she started to waken him, only to change her mind. The two of them moving around was bound to be overheard by the others, while she herself made scarcely a sound.

As she had the previous afternoon, she eased out from under the blanket, managing not to waken Jake with her movements. Stealthily, she eased into her jacket, tugged on her socks, then wriggled her feet into her loosely tied boots. Dread swirled in her like a cold tide, but she ignored it and slipped out of the bungalow the same way she’d left it yesterday, right out the back flap.

Hugging the rear of the building, she crept through the darkness toward the front, her footsteps silent on the damp earth. A peek at the quiet camp encouraged her to dart across the open space to Gallo’s screen door. To her relief, it gave the barest squeak as she opened it just far enough to slip inside.

The generator had been turned off. In the dark space, Maggie paused to feed her pounding heart oxygen before starting her search.

Predawn light brightened the window, showing her immediately that Gallo had taken his handheld radio with him. The notebook, thankfully, still lay upon the desk. She crossed the room to pick it up, then stepped toward the window to better see its contents. It was obviously an officer’s log. She skimmed the last entry written by Gallo about his playing fútbol with the UN guests and beating them soundly. Hah.

Flipping back in time, Maggie came to an entry about eight months old and encountered a drawing?—no, it was a map! A map of El Castillo, complete with a compass indicating which way was east, west, north, and south, with three sites clearly marked with an X , two of them named.

Adrenaline flooded her arteries. With no way to take a photo, she could either try to memorize the map or tear it out to show it to Jake. This was just the kind of intel the SEALs at the JIC wanted from them.

Opting for the latter, Maggie stepped back to the desk, then parted the page from the binding as seamlessly as possible. It tore away fairly cleanly, leaving only stray bits of paper that she blew away before folding up the map and slipping it into her pocket.

Next, she peered under the bed, seeing nothing because of the dark. Feeling with a hand, she identified folded clothing and extra pairs of boots. Next, she ran a hand between the lower bunk and the wall. When her fingers closed around the haft of a little dagger, she pulled it out, reveling in the sense of security it gave her. She was stowing it in her left boot to lie along her ankle when the approach of footfalls jerked her upright.

Was Gallo back? With no time to dive beneath the bunk and hide, she flattened herself against the nearest wall. The screen door gave a squeak, and a dark figure stepped stealthily into the building. She was about to be caught red-handed!

“Lena?”

Her whispered name turned her weak with relief. At her exhalation, Jake whirled toward her. In the next instant, she was hauled nose to nose with him, his grip conveying frustration. “You did it again. When are you going to realize we’re a team?”

“I found a map.” It was the only way to check his anger. She’d be mad, too, if she woke up to find him gone.

“A map? Where is it?”

“In my pocket. We need to go.”

He apparently agreed, tugging her toward the screen door. “I’ll go first. Wait until you hear my whistle. That’ll mean the coast is clear.”

The same whistle he used to make in college, when she’d stolen out of her dorm without her roommate’s knowledge to accompany Jake to a late-night café.

A quick, unexpected kiss on her lips brought her abruptly to the present. As Jake slipped outside, moving too quickly for the hinges to make a sound, she processed the kiss. Had he meant to kiss her? It had felt so unpremeditated…so right.

Peeking through the screen, she waited. The sky had brightened, and the forest had come alive with monkey chatter and birdsong.

A minute crept by, and then another. Was that Jake’s whistle, or was that a bird? The sky was now a deep lavender hue. On the other side of the camp, the kid manning the machine gun left his sandbag bunker to relieve himself against a tree. His back was turned. The coast had to be clear.

Maggie eased the door open and stepped outside. In that same instant, a figure she hadn’t seen standing by the firepit turned and caught sight of her?—David. Maggie neither stiffened nor gasped. “When caught red-handed,” her father had taught her, “go on the offensive.”

Squaring her shoulders, she marched straight toward him.

“Where is Mondo Gallo?” Both her tone and her body language suggested annoyance, though she was careful to keep her voice down. “Esme has a high fever, and I need the medicine that was in my backpack. Where is that now?” It was the first excuse she could think of.

The suspicion that had creased David’s brow eased. “Your medicamentos belong to the people now. It was given to the mayor of the nearest village to be distributed equitably.” He spoke in a gentle voice, clearly believing his own words.

“Equitably?” Maggie propped her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes. We are all equals. No one person should have more than another.”

“And yet, your guests are people, too. Shouldn’t we have access to medicine?”

“I’m sorry. It was given to the poor.”

To his credit, he did sound like he felt bad.

“And you don’t think Gallo kept some for himself?” She gestured to the hut she’d been searching.

“I doubt it. I’ve never seen him get sick.”

She heaved a sigh. “All right. Well, you’d better hope Esme doesn’t die. That wouldn’t exactly endear the FARC to the rest of the world. When Gallo comes back, I’ll ask him directly.”

Pivoting, she left David staring after her as she loped casually back to the bungalow, entering through the front flap. She ran straight into Jake, who pulled her into his embrace and held her there. Maggie felt his heart thumping through the material of their clothing. He’d truly been scared for her.

“I’m okay.” If anything, the event should prove to Jake that she could handle herself in the slipperiest of situations. Sure, he’d had to rescue her twice in the past, but those were the exceptions, not the rule. She was getting her confidence back. And the time would soon come when she could go back into the field, operating solo, the way she had before.

Sorrow stitched through the fabric of her optimism. Darn it, she was getting used to having a partner.

“Plus lentement!” Slow down .

Jake chased Lena down the same path they’d taken yesterday to the garcinia tree. Thunder rumbled above the thick canopy, and it was raining again, turning the ground to muck beneath their boots. Following a long, boring morning in which Jake had taught the teens a version of Mancala using their own marbles, the clouds had buckled. Both the rebels and the guests fled the deluge by retreating to their shelters.

Lena had tried to show Jake the map, then, along with the dagger still stowed in her boot, but Charles had hushed them, conveying that their whispers might be viewed as suspicious. Jake, wanting to seize this chance to test the sat phone again, had gestured toward their secret exit and Lena had nodded.

The only drawback to seeking privacy was getting soaked. Cold rainwater dripped from the spiked ends of Jake’s hair. The ground was like one of those Slip ’N Slide mats they’d set up as kids to play on. Lena, of course, didn’t slow her pace one iota.

Frustrated, he checked the impulse to chide her in English because he didn’t know the French words. He managed to put a precaution together, “I can’t catch you from here if you slip, Lena.”

In typical Lena fashion, she ignored him. “I’m not going to slip.”

To make sure of that, she was grabbing hold of the vegetation as they charged downhill. He wanted to tell her that wasn’t a good idea either, yet being as eager to see the map and get back to their cubicle, he didn’t say anything.

In the next instant, Lena yelped as a species of tarantula scrabbled up her arm. Before Jake could brush it off, she shook herself violently and promptly slipped on the mud.

The indignant look she swiveled up at him made Jake’s ribs tickle.

“Ne dis pas un mot,” she warned on a humiliated note. Don’t say a word.

To keep from laughing, Jake imagined what would have happened if the harmless tarantula was a fer-de-lance pit viper. As he helped her to her feet again, he swept the weeping forest. Who but fools and spies would venture out into a rainstorm? “I think this is far enough. Show me what you’ve got, but keep it dry.”

Lena found the closest tree to shelter them and pulled the map from her pocket. Putting his cheek close to hers, Jake examined the crude drawing with interest.

She pointed at two of the three X s. “These are the names of camps, I think. Which one is ours, do you think?” She stuck faithfully to French, a true professional.

Jake pointed. “Probably this one. We’re pretty high up the mountain.”

“Cecaot-Jicobo.” She attempted to pronounce the name beneath it. The other was called Ki-kirr-ziki s. “Are these indigenous words?”

“ J’en doute .” I doubt it . Jake lifted his right leg and went to work, taking off his boot. Once the phone was in his hand, he powered it up, glancing around vigilantly as it emitted the beep. At last, he pulled up the antenna and prayed for a connection.

Lena watched his every move. “Still nothing?” She sounded as concerned as he felt.

“Nope.” As he lowered the antenna, disappointed, she looked back at the map.

“So, if these names aren’t indigenous, what are they?”

“Encryptions.” Another word he didn’t know in French, so he faked it.

She looked irritated that she hadn’t realized that before he did. “Can you break the code?”

Her expectant, upward glance warmed him. “Possibly, but it’ll take me a while.”

“Hmm.” She looked back at the map, pointing to what was clearly a depiction of water. “I wonder if this is the creek we crossed. If so, there’s a waterfall near the top.”

Jake peeked at the crude drawing in her hands. “There’s got to be more than one river on this mountain.”

“Why isn’t this camp named?”

He considered the X she was pointing to, situated near the mountain’s peak. “Maybe that’s the radio station.” Giving up on a connection, he started to stow the phone back in his boot, then changed his mind. “Let me take a picture first. Hold it still for me.”

She angled the map obligingly. “But you can’t upload photos without a signal, can you?”

“No. The pictures aren’t going anywhere until we get coverage.” He snapped off a shot of the entire map, then zoomed in over each X .

“You think your team is worried that we haven’t checked in?”

He replied with more assurance than he felt. “As long as our trackers are transmitting, they’re not worried.”

As he put the phone away, Lena folded the map. “Can we bury this now? I don’t like carrying it around.”

“You don’t have to.” He plucked it from her grasp and stuffed it inside his own pants pocket next to their passports, which he carried everywhere. “And we can’t bury it until we’re sure the JIC has the photos. In the meantime, I’ll try to break the encryption.”

“ Cryptage ,” she corrected.

“Oui. It can’t be that complex. It’s not like they have a lot of technology out here.”

Jake hauled on his boot and quickly tied the laces. He wasn’t going to tell Lena this and compound her stress, but even if their phone was working, it was only a matter of time before the constant moisture here interfered with the electronics, rendering it even more useless than it was already.

When a shout came out of the forest early that evening, Maggie’s first response was relief. She hadn’t joined the CIA to sit on her hands all day waiting for others to make things happen.

While Jake sat around the smoldering firepit with Boris, Bellini, and Charles, Maggie sat with Esme on the bungalow’s front platform, listening to the Turkish woman’s life story. The shout coming from the woods was a godsend.

But in response to it, Chucho, who was manning the .50-caliber machine gun, let loose with a stream of bullets that tattered the foliage. Maggie hit the ground, her adrenaline spiking.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat . On the far side of the camp, bits of bark and leaves rained down like confetti. One minute, Jake was over at the firepit; the next, he was hauling Maggie off the mud and around the building, where he pinned her against the spindly post.

“What’s happening?” She eyed the pulse in Jake’s powerful neck, her heart beating fast.

“Don’t know yet.”

The familiar grating quality of Gallo’s voice reached their ears as the deputy returned from his mysterious departure to rail at poor Chucho, accusing him of trying to kill his own leader.

“Guess who’s back?” Jake sounded about as thrilled about the mondo ’s return as Maggie was. But then Jake stiffened. “And he’s brought company.”

“Who?” Maggie stole a peek around the edge of the building. In the overcast afternoon light, she made out four more men standing in the mist beyond the machine gun. Their uniforms, solid pea-green, were different from Gallo’s. They carried weapons over their shoulders that looked like brand-new AK-74s, not the antique 47s like the FARC had, and vests jam-packed with artillery.

A taut quiet fell over the camp as its inhabitants eyed the newcomers. Even the chickens seemed to stop and stare.

“They’re not FARC dressed like that,” Jake observed. “Maybe they’re ELN?”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. The uniform struck her as familiar. Her gaze slid to the mules they were leading, each one laden with burlap sacks, and her stomach growled. “Please, say they’ve brought food for us.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Rather than lead the strangers closer, Gallo summoned David’s squad over to unload the heavy-looking sacks. Maggie and Jake watched as the four boys who’d played fútbol hastened toward the mules and took one bag apiece, toting them toward the little hutch that housed the cooking utensils.

“Why don’t they just bring the mules into camp and save the kids some work?” Maggie wanted to know.

“Maybe Gallo doesn’t want us rubbing elbows with these guys.”

“Why not?” She tugged on Jake’s sleeve. “Let’s see what happens when we offer to help.”

He frowned at her. “Are you trying to get into trouble?”

“How is that trouble? We’re peacekeepers. Helping is what we do.”

He cut a thoughtful look toward the newcomers, clearly as curious as she was. “ Bien . But stay behind me and let me do the talking.”

They left the corner of the bungalow together, walking casually toward Gallo and his buddies when David stepped into their path.

“Stay back.” His light-brown eyes conveyed worry.

“But we can help.” Jake sounded like an eager Boy Scout. “I can carry two bags at once. Look at them.” He gestured to the young FARC rebels huffing and puffing under just one bag.

“No.” David’s tone brooked no argument. “Gallo will blame me.”

The words convinced Maggie to change her mind. At least she’d gotten close enough to read the lettering on the sides of the bags: Frijoles negros . Thank God! Maybe tomorrow, they would get some beans with their rice.

With the foodstuffs unpacked, Gallo waved off the newcomers who led their mules into the mist on the same path both Gallo and Marquez had taken earlier, leaving Maggie with more questions than answers, like where did that path lead, and what about the other one near the bull’s-eyes? No one had headed off on that path yet.

“I’m not good at this.”

Jake lifted a wry gaze to Lena’s longsuffering expression. It wasn’t common for her to admit a weakness, but it wasn’t like Jake hadn’t noticed her frustration. With a weak morning sun brightening the clouds parked over their camp, they sat together on the front ledge of the bungalow, playing a game of tic-tac-toe in the dirt at their feet. Since she’d beat him in the last four games, she wasn’t referring to her strategy, obviously.

“What, waiting?” he guessed in French.

“Yes. How are you not wanting to tear your hair out?”

He tapped his temple. “I’m busy thinking.”

“About?”

“You know.”

It took her a second to guess. Ever since yesterday, he’d been working on breaking the encryption.

“All in your head?”

“Do you see a pen and paper lying around?”

“There’s some in the officers’ quarters.”

No sooner did she mention that building than the screen door swung open and out stepped Gallo, clutching his handheld radio. He yelled at David, who was cleaning his weapon along with the rest of the kids, to clean up the camp. Marquez would be back in half an hour.

Finally! Lena cast Jake a look of relief. “Let’s pray Arias has proof of life so we can get the ball rolling.”

The commander and the Argentine had been gone for three days. Between their two batteries, they were down to nine days of power left on the sat phone that had yet to connect with the JIC. “Amen to that.”

A beat of silence followed his reply. As Lena turned her head and met his gaze, he could tell she wanted to tell him something. “What?”

“I hope you still pray.”

He blinked. “I do. But you used to tease me about it.”

“Well…that was before.”

“Before what?”

She looked away, apparently self-conscious. “You used to tell me one day I would need to ask for God’s help.”

“I remember.”

“Well, that day came in Morocco,” she admitted unexpectedly, “when I wasn’t sure I would make it to the”?—she glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear?—“to the place where you picked me up.”

Picturing the way she’d looked with her face bludgeoned, crippled by pain, he could imagine she’d been terrified. “Did praying help?”

She raised her eyebrows. “It did, actually. Unless it was just adrenaline.”

For Jake, it made no difference. “Think of it this way. If God created us with all of our marvelous complexities, then who made the adrenaline? God did. So, it was Him either way.”

She cast him a tolerant smile. “I could never win an argument with you.”

“Is that why we don’t argue? And here I thought it was because we got along so well.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Jacques.” Her request held a hint of desperation.

He was about to ask, “What are you afraid of?” when she announced, “Oh, here come Marquez and Arias now.” Pushing off the ledge, she put several yards between them, making it abundantly clear she was done with their deep conversation.

Jake grimaced. Not to worry. They still had days to spend together. And with God’s help, he would win her over yet.

Joining Lena and the other peacekeepers in welcoming Arias back, Jake’s gaze went straight to the commander’s left wrist as he marched into camp with the Argentine. The watch was gone, which meant either Marquez had sold it or he’d gifted it to Rojas. The CIA might know that man’s exact coordinates without him even realizing it.

Marquez ordered Arias and the peacekeepers to get straight to business. They squeezed into the officers’ quarters a second time, an even tighter fit with everyone packed inside, eager to discover what progress had been made. They gave the desk chair to the Argentine, who seemed to have aged overnight. In the last three days, he’d grown a prickly-looking mustache but no beard. Beads of sweat glimmered on his brow.

Speaking in a low voice, he forced all of them to lean forward so they could hear his words over the drone of the generator out back. “It takes three hours to reach Rojas’s camp.” He wiped his brow with his stained sleeve.

Jake met Lena’s sidelong glance. Would that be Ki-kirr-zikis or the unnamed site near the top of the mountain?

“Yet I have brought proof of life, as you requested.” Arias withdrew two wrinkled letters from the front pocket of his jacket and surrendered them to Boris.

The German tugged on the switch of the dangling lightbulb, which substantially brightened the room, before perusing both letters in silence. “These appear to be authentic.” He passed one letter to his left, the other to his right.

When the letter from Jay Barnes fell into Jake’s hands, he overheard the breath hitch in Lena’s throat as she leaned in to peruse it with him. Given the water splotches and the smeared ink, it appeared as if Jay had been weeping when he wrote it?—or getting rained on. The letter was addressed to his bride, Amelia, to whom Jay poured out his distress at being kept away. He hoped to be released by Labor Day, which was the only reference to time, apart from the date the letter was written, July 28, just over a week ago. The FARC had anticipated the request for proof of life even before Boris suggested it.

Passing the letter off to Bellini, Jake watched Lena take the letter from Mike Howitz and skim it briefly. As it was written in English, a language she professed not to know, she handed it to Jake, who waded his way through the sloppy handwriting, just managing to glean its message. He looked up. “Se?or Howitz mentions that he missed his son’s birthday. Does anyone know when that was?”

Lena was the only one to answer. “El once de mayo.” May 11 th . When everyone regarded her in surprise, she added, “Did you all not read the report?”

Jake looked back at the letter. “This letter was written a week ago, July 31, so, yes, he would have missed it.”

Lena leaned closer to the letter in his hand, then plucked it away from him. “Espera.” Wait. She shifted so she was standing under the light, then shook her head. “No. Someone else wrote this date. It’s not in his handwriting, and it isn’t even written with the same pen.”

Her awareness of details amazed Jake.

“Let me see?” Boris took the letter and examined it. “It looks the same to me.” He passed it to Bellini.

The Italian shrugged. “I think so, too.” He gave the letter to Esme.

She regarded the date for a moment. “I really can’t tell.”

Charles got the letter next. Angling it toward the screen door, he examined it. “I believe Madeleine is correct. The ink and the writing are different.” He passed it back to Boris.

Firming his lips, Boris stared at the date, then heaved a sigh. “I think, if there is a question about who wrote the date, then this letter does not prove Mike Howitz is still alive.” He returned the letter to the Argentine. “I’m sorry, but this doesn’t qualify as proof of life for Mike Howitz. He could have written this letter back in May, which is how it reads.”

The once dapper Argentine seemed to shrink in his chair. Pity for the man kept Jake quiet. He was as much a hostage as Mike and Jay despite the modest respect the rebels had shown him.

Charles gave a push toward Maggie and Jake’s agenda. “If we could only see the captives for ourselves.”

Boris shook his large head. “General Rojas would never allow that. Would he?” he asked Arias.

“No. Not even I am permitted to see them.”

A beat of silence passed.

Jake broke it by inquiring, “What about their voices ? ” He mimed talking via a handheld radio.

Lena jumped on the idea, taking over for him since Jacques’s Spanish wasn’t adequate enough. “Yes, whoever is guarding the hostages probably has a radio, as well. And, no, we don’t need to see the hostages to determine who they are. Their accents would identify them. Barnes is a Texan, and Howitz is from…” She pretended not to remember.

“Carolina del sur,” Charles supplied, scratching his chin. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

Boris turned eagerly toward Arias. “What do you think, se?or?”

The middleman gave a weary shrug. “I can ask.” He sat a moment, brow furrowed, blinking as if to remember something. “Ah, yes. Rojas wishes to make a change to the FARC’s demands: In addition to the ransom of five-hundred-thousand dollars for each man, he wants you to pressure the Colombian Army into releasing five FARC soldiers captured in Calamar three years ago.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Boris didn’t seem at all dismayed or surprised by the FARC’s changing ransom demands.

Bellini gave voice to Jake’s question. “How could we possibly promise the return of captured rebels? We can’t speak for the Colombian Army.”

The German’s shrug implied he might have consulted with the Colombian Army prior to this trip to determine what, if any, concessions might be made. “Perhaps a trade,” he suggested. “As I understand it, the FARC have also captured some of the JUNGLA.”

Jake met Lena’s startled gaze. This was news to them.

“And yet”?—Boris looked back at Arias?—“no arrangements can be made until we are assured the hostages are alive.”

“Yes, yes.” Arias seemed half asleep.

Boris swept an apologetic look over the group. “Then we are done here.” Helping the Argentine to his feet, he thanked Charles, who held open the door for them. With a heavy heart, they all filed out, condemned to the soul-numbing task of waiting for better proof of life.

As they stepped into the hazy sunshine, the scent of simmering beans made Jake’s stomach rumble. Marquez waved them over, clearly inviting them to eat.

Jake had to smile at the look of anticipation on Lena’s face. Thanks to the mysterious delivery the previous evening, they would get to eat a halfway decent meal today.

More than that, Boris Mayer had revealed an ace in his deck of cards, which he’d hitherto kept up his sleeve. Colombia’s Army was willing to release five rebels in return for the release of three captured JUNGLA. The prospect of a trade seemed reasonable, but only if the FARC let Howitz and Barnes prove they were alive by talking to the UN team via a handheld radio.

Sitting around the firepit’s embers on the tree stumps, the peacekeepers consumed their midday meal while listening to the Cuban propagandist rant against North American Imperialism. Jake had to remind himself he wasn’t a norteamericano, but rather a French citizen. He forced himself to nod from time to time as if agreeing with the commentator, who even had the gall to blame the uptick in protests on the “capitalist aggressor.” Lena, he could tell, was fighting not to roll her eyes.

Just as Jake was scraping the last bean from his bowl, Gallo barked an order that had him and the other UN team members gaping at the man, confused.

“Get up! You’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” Boris asked him.

“No questions. Follow the squad commander.” Gallo pointed to David and his three sidekicks, Estéban, Julian, and Chucho, all of whom clutched their semiautomatics, urging haste.

With his meal sitting heavily in his stomach, Jake glanced at Lena’s taut expression as they both rose. The rebels were notorious for relocating their hostages, but the UN peacekeepers weren’t hostages, were they? Were they about to be marched to a different camp? How arduous would the hike be?

“You.” Gallo gestured imperiously to Bellini. “Carry the bucket.”

Looking mystified, the Italian did as he was told. With a cautious peek into the pail of hammered tin, his worry vanished. He sent the others a grin of relief. “Soap and towels.”

Jake shared a smile of relief with Lena. They were getting to bathe? Where?

As they followed David across the camp toward the football field, he reached for Lena’s hand, pleased when she let him hold on to it. It appeared they would get to forge the path nobody had used until now, the one by the bull’s-eyes.

Confidence welled in Jake. Apart from the sat phone fiasco, things were looking up. It wasn’t even raining for a change. Spindles of sunlight pierced the mist here and there, brightening the pink and yellow orchids sprouting on the bark of trees, on anything organic, really. The name for such plants surfaced from a college biology class taken long ago: epiphytes.

With Lena’s hand tucked in his, Jake felt himself smiling. He had to be crazy because he was happier now on this wet, muddy mountain in the middle of nowhere than he’d been in the last twelve years.