Rebecca York - Till Death Us Do Part

“Hardly.”

“Then what?”

“You have to work that out for yourself.”

“I may not get the chance. From the way she looked at me when the guards took her into custody, I’d be willing to bet she thinks I’m the one who turned her in to Sanchez.”

“You’re describing a situation in which she was under a great deal of stress. She’s had some time to think things through.” Abby leaned forward. “Jed, some very rough things have happened to Marci in her life. Things she hasn’t even been able to discuss with her sister. She’s done what she had to do to survive, and she’s come a long way. I’ve thought for several months that you might be able to help her.”

“She’s discussed me with you? What the hell did she say?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that slip out.” Abby flushed. “I’m not going to answer any more questions about my patient. What else did you come here to talk about?”

Jed shifted in his chair, looking from the tasteful prints on the wall to his hands and then toward the window. Everywhere but at Abby’s face. He could get up and leave on cue. Or he could make a grab for the brass ring. “You’re too perceptive.”

“That’s what they pay me for. But this session is free of charge.”

He forced a laugh. It sounded strained and nervous. “You mentioned that everything that’s said here is strictly confidential.”

“Yes.”

“So if I wanted to discuss something about myself and I wanted to keep it quiet, it wouldn’t go any further.”

“That’s right.”

He almost cut and ran. Then he figured he didn’t have anything to lose. If he didn’t want to, he never had to see Abby Franklin again. “There’s a reason why I might be putting Marissa in danger by taking this assignment. I mean, something in my background that might make me a risky choice.”

When Abby’s expression remained neutral, he continued. “Did Marissa tell you I used to be hooked up with a supersecret spy organization?”

“Yes. She didn’t tell me the name,” she added.

“She probably doesn’t know I was asked to resign.” He heard his voice turn gritty as he struggled to keep his face from betraying the depths of his humiliation.

“That was rough on you,” Abby murmured.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“So did you really come here to tell me you’re no good at your job?”

“I am good at it!”

“But you’re the wrong man for the rescue mission?” Abby persisted.

“Maybe.”

“I’m willing to give you my professional judgment.”

“I found out seven years ago.”

“Found out what?”

He clenched his hands on the arms of the chair so he wouldn’t bolt from the room. With his emotions under equally rigid restraint, he told Abby Franklin the secret that had been eating him alive.

* * *

ROUGH HANDS shook Marissa awake, and she couldn’t hold back a startled scream.

“Let’s go,” a gruff voice ordered in Spanish.

“Wh what’s going on?” she answered in the same language.

“ El Jefe has sent for you.”

Marissa’s heart began to pound. With no warning, she was going to be interrogated by the man whose office she’d been caught burglarizing. Had he found the camera in the toilet tank? Was that why he was finally sending for her? She ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Would you let me have a minute alone?”

He shrugged and stepped outside the door, giving her some privacy.

Quickly she used the toilet in the corner of the cell and washed her hands and face, wondering how unkempt she looked after three days in a cell. She expected to be escorted upstairs to the general’s office, and braced herself accordingly. Her eyes widened as she was led outside to a gray Chevy van parked by the delivery entrance. Two guards hustled her inside. Yanking her foot to the right, they cuffed her ankle to a ring that had been welded to the floor. Hardly standard equipment from Chevrolet.

“You said El Jefe. ”

“Silencio!”

She pressed her lips together as the man slid onto the bench seat beside her. He kept a machine gun cocked under his arm. His companion climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. After ten minutes it was clear they were heading out of the city. Going west, according to a road sign.

Marissa knew that Sanchez had a finca in Colorado Province. Calling it a farm was an understatement, since it occupied more than twenty thousand acres. Despite the heat and humidity, she shivered. In the capital El Jefe was a powerful man but not entirely above the law. At his outlying estate he was the lord of the manor. He could do anything with her that he wanted, and no one would ever dig up the facts.

A cold sweat broke out on her skin. Involuntarily, her foot jerked against the cuff.

“Sit still,” the man with the gun muttered.

She went rigid.

The scenery changed from overcrowded urban to jungle in almost the blink of an eye. However, she knew from her extensive research on Sanchez and the local area that the two-lane road they took was one of the best paved in San Marcos, undoubtedly for the general’s benefit. Marissa had come this way a few days ago on the trip she’d told Jed about to visit some newly discovered Mayan ruins being excavated by a team from the University of New Mexico.

What would Jed do if he were in a spot like this, she wondered. Somehow, on all the dangerous missions she’d undertaken for the State Department, she’d never pictured herself getting captured. Shot, maybe; put out of her misery with one clean bullet. But not abducted. She shuddered, admitting for the first time that she should have known better.

Every ten or fifteen miles the jungle gave way to a village of thatch-roofed, bamboo huts strung out along the road. More than once a stray cow or goat wandered onto the pavement, and the driver honked furiously. Each time Marissa tensed as she entertained the guilty hope that the speeding van might collide with one of the animals. If the vehicle was forced to stop, she might have a chance to escape.

There were no such fortunate incidents with the livestock. But Marissa’s lucky break came about a mile and a half past one of the villages when the van blew a tire. Cursing, the driver had to wrestle the vehicle to the far right side of the blacktop, since there was no real shoulder. When he opened the back door, he discovered there was no jack. He cursed again.

The two men who turned out to be named Jose and Jorge argued in rapid Spanish, each accusing the other of being responsible for getting them into this fix. Jorge, the one who’d sat with her in the back seat, lost the shouting match and ended up trotting back to the village. Jose climbed out and ambled into the shade of a kapok tree. Nearby several goats grazed.

It was only about eight in the morning, but the temperature in the disabled van was already rising to steam-bath proportions.

“You’re not going to leave me in here, are you?” Marissa called through the open window.

“He’s got the key.” Jose pointed in the direction of his retreating companion before pulling his cap over his face and settling down for a nap.

Thank God they’d been too confident to search her, Marissa thought as she slipped her hand into her pocket and extracted one of the items she’d hidden her spare manicure set. And thank God she knew a lot about the terrain, both from several previous jungle expeditions and extensive reading.

Working quietly and stealthily, she began to probe at the lock on the cuff that secured her ankle to the floor of the van. Every so often she glanced up at Jose. He looked as if he were asleep.

Her hands were shaking so badly that it took several tries to open the lock. Finally it yielded.

Her breath slowed as she looked through the window of the van. Was this whole thing a setup? An excuse to shoot the prisoner attempting to escape?

She didn’t know. But she’d made her decision. Considering what could be waiting for her at Sanchez’s estate, she had to try to get away while the getting was good.

After one last furtive glance at the guard, she ducked low and slipped out the open door.

The moment her feet hit the pavement she was crouching and running toward the safety of the trees.

Marissa muffled her sob of relief as she reached the concealing foliage on the other side of the road. Quickly she slipped farther into the shadows.

She’d gotten free. But that was only the first step. Not a living soul in this part of San Marcos was going to risk Sanchez’s wrath by helping her. Her only hope was to reach the American archaeologists at the Mayan ruins, explain what had happened and hope they had the resources to get her out of the country.

That meant she’d have to get far enough away from the van to risk crossing the road, then head north. Going back seemed like a bad idea, since she might run into Jorge. So she continued toward Sanchez’s estate and tried to stay more or less parallel to the blacktop.

However, she soon found it was impossible to travel in a straight line without a machete to slash her way through the dense foliage. In addition, she had to move carefully, since she was trying hard not to leave a trail the guards could follow.

The jungle was alive with other dangers, too. The archaeologists had told her about killing a coral snake near the ruins. Since there was no antidote for their venom, a bite meant death within minutes. All she could do was break a dead branch from a small tree to use as a defensive weapon.

Her clothing was soaked with perspiration, but she kept moving at a steady pace, detouring around tarantula holes and the huge hills of the leaf-cutter ants, who could make mincemeat of human flesh as easily as they denuded trees.

When she judged she was half a mile from the van, she sprinted across the road. Then she headed north, using the position of the sun as a guide. Every time she heard a noise in the underbrush, she expected Jorge or Jose to lunge from behind a palm tree. But so far so good.

Marissa pushed herself as hard as she could through the bugs and heat and plants that seemed to grab at her clothing as if they had an agreement with the soldiers to slow her progress. Eventually she had to stop and rest. Wishing that she had a hat and some insect repellent, she reached out a hand to steady herself against a slender tree trunk.

It was an unfortunate move. The bark was covered with thorns. She yelped in pain, and high above her in the trees a colony of howler monkeys reacted. Mortally offended by what they considered the invasion of their territory, they began to protest loudly. She might as well have been standing next to an air raid siren.

She started off again at the fastest pace she could manage. But she was a whole lot less optimistic than she’d been a few minutes ago. She’d been counting on her pursuers not knowing where to look for her. The monkeys had given them a road map.

* * *

JED TRIED TO RELAX in the airline seat. At least he was flying to San Marcos first class this time, so there was enough room to stretch his legs.

Of course, there would be plenty of space to stretch out if he and Marissa came home in wooden boxes.

He grimaced. Abby Franklin could pay the funeral expenses, since she’d listened to his story and then made him believe he’d be okay if he took certain precautions. He’d left her office feeling better about himself than he had in years. After a little reflection, he realized how good she was at her job. What she’d really done was the equivalent of patching up a combat soldier and sending him back into battle. But he’d understood her motives. She was convinced that he was the only person with the right set of qualifications to extract Marissa from Sanchez’s clutches.