Last Spy Standing. Dana Marton
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index finger curled around the trigger of his weapon, adrenaline shooting into his bloodstream.
But instead of all hell breaking loose, everything became absurdly surreal as a blonde suburban housewife stepped out of the bushes at the edge of the clearing. She wore khaki capri pants and a matching tank top, blond waves tumbling around her heart-shaped face, translucent amber eyes as wide as they could be. She looked like she came straight from a backyard barbecue or a kid’s birthday party. The only things missing were the oven mitts.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. Can you help me?”
Then their moment of grace was over and the “goatherds” opened fire on Mitch. They apparently didn’t consider the woman much of a threat. Mitch dove for the bushes to avoid the flying bullets. But one nicked him in the shoulder. He ignored the burn as he shot and rolled, careful to avoid Blondie.
Lucky for her, he was good at what he did. The fight ended in seconds.
She stood in the same spot, her feet frozen to the ground, her entire body trembling. And he noticed now that her clothes were stained in places, her hands dirty.
“Oh,” she said, as he came to his feet, blood trickling down his arm. Her full lips trembled faintly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t move.” He patted her down, feeling surprised, and a little guilty, that he enjoyed it. Her eyes went even wider, and her cheeks blushed pink.
When he was done, he slipped the small designer backpack off her shoulders and checked over the contents: a small first aid kit, bug spray, suntan lotion, extra clothes and a water bottle with a filter that made even mud puddles safe to drink. No weapons.
He gave the bag back. Damned if he knew what to make of her. “Okay. Get sick if you need to.”
She ran for the bushes she’d come from, and a second later he could hear her retching.
He turned to the bodies on the sand, then to Zak, who was inching forward from his hiding spot. He looked green around the gills, too. He threw a questioning look toward the bushes where they could still hear their mysterious guest.
Mitch shrugged and collected the weapons. “Go see what they have in their bags.” Food would be welcome. He looked with regret at the yerba maté that had been spilled.
“Hey, check this out!” Zak held up two-kilo bags of white powder a minute later, grinning from ear to ear.
Mitch leveled his gaze on the idiot. “Rip it open, then dump it into the river.”
“What? No way.”
Mitch went stock-still. “Dump it into the river or I’ll leave you here to rot.”
A long minute passed before the kid sprinkled the white powder over the water, his stance belligerent. He took a quick sniff from the back of his hand when he thought Mitch wasn’t looking.
The governor of Kansas was a decent man, but too softhearted. He was going to have to learn tough love in a hurry if he wanted to straighten out his son. Mitch didn’t envy him.
He collected the AK-47s and tossed them into the river. He had plenty of ammo for his own gun and didn’t need the extra weight to carry in this heat. No way he was giving one to the kid.
The bushes rustled as Blondie returned, none too steady on her feet. She kept her distance. She was too pretty to look truly pitiful, but she looked tussled—in a curvaceous, wholesome way. “Are you Americans?”
She wasn’t the kind of woman Mitch could relate to. He didn’t exactly lead a suburban lifestyle. He fixed Zak with a look to keep him quiet. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“Megan Cassidy. From New Jersey. I’m on a South American orchid tour.” She swallowed hard. “We were attacked in the jungle.”
Here? What was she on, the kamikaze boat run by Stupid Tours? He swatted some bugs away. “How many people?”
“Twenty-two of us tourists …” Her voice faltered. “Plus the two guides.”
He felt infinitely tired all of a sudden. He didn’t have time to rush into the jungle. He couldn’t. It wasn’t part of his mission. He asked anyway. “Survivors?”
“Just me.” Tears spilled over and ran down her alabaster skin.
He didn’t trust tears. He never knew when they were genuine and when they were used to simply manipulate a man. Her crying made him uneasy.
What did people like her think they were doing in the jungle? Hell, she shouldn’t have been allowed in the country. Women like her should stick to attending PTA meetings, sipping double lattes while strolling through the mall and playing golf at the country club.
“I need to go home.” She swallowed a sob. “Could you help me find the nearest town? I need to get to the police and an airport. Please?”
An unwanted complication at a time when he couldn’t afford to be slowed down. “When did all this happen?”
She blinked rapidly. “This morning.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know.” She sniffed. “I kept running.”
He hadn’t heard gunshots, but the dense greenery muffled sound—the jungle formed solid walls in places. It all came down to this: he had no way of figuring out where exactly the massacre had taken place. And he had no time to look for it.
He finished considering his options, and shot Zak a look to remind him to keep quiet. “I’m Mitch and this is Zak here. From Panama. We’re hiking buddies. Just got on this trail when these drug runners ambushed us,” he lied with practiced ease.
He didn’t want to have to kill her, and didn’t have the heart to leave her, either. But he would, if she became a threat to his mission. “About that attack on your group …”
She folded her arms around her slim midriff, her skin tightening over her cheekbones. “Would you mind if we didn’t talk about it? Just right now, I mean?” Her amber eyes begged him. There went those trembling lips again.
The sight of her twisted something in the middle of his chest, an unfamiliar sensation he didn’t care for. He supposed his questions could wait. “You can come with us as far as the nearest town.”
She looked ready to melt with relief. “Thank you. I won’t be any trouble, I swear.”
He didn’t believe that for a second.
Her shoulders straightened as she visibly pulled herself together. “What can I do to help?”
All right, she got a point for that. He’d yet to hear that question from Zak.
“Take whatever food and water you can find and store it in our backpacks,” he told her. He nodded at Zak to help her, then went to see about the bodies.
He searched their clothes, but found little beyond cigarettes. No ID on any of them. The last thing people like this would have wanted, if they were caught, was for the polizia to be able to identify them.
Ten minutes later, the current carried the bodies of the three goatherds-slash-drug runners downriver. Another minute and the bags were packed. Mitch’s had been hit, his GPS/radio unit among the casualties. It would have been a lot worse if he’d lost that on his way in. But from this point on, the way back out was fairly straightforward.
As he swung his backpack over his shoulder, he caught Megan looking at him.
“Let me see to your wound.” She stepped closer, her movements hesitant, but her gaze determined.
His shoulder. Back at home, he would have ignored something this small, but it wouldn’t be smart to risk an infection in the jungle.
“All right.” But he watched her carefully. She hadn’t taken the earlier gunfight well. He didn’t want her to faint