Till Death Us Do Part. Rebecca York
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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.
Chapter Three
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.
The flight attendant came by and asked him if he wanted a drink. He ordered a bourbon and water. Maybe the liquor would help him sleep—like the rest of the passengers on the red-eye flight to Santa Isabella. Most of them looked as if they were going to San Marcos to visit relatives or relax in an unspoiled tropical paradise. He was flying into one of the trickiest assignments of his undercover career.
And he might have to change the rules as he went along if things didn’t work out the way Marci’s friends thought they would.
Marci. Ever since he’d heard her sister use the nickname, he’d started to think of her like that. It was part of his changing image of her, as if he were dealing with two different women. Marissa was cold and aloof, tough and sophisticated. She’d taken plenty of undercover jobs, and she knew the risks.
Marci was another matter entirely. His face softened as he considered her. She was fragile and vulnerable, shy and a bit naive. She pretended she knew all the rules. In fact, she’d conned him pretty well over the past few years, and he was a damn good judge of people. But all along she’d been hiding behind Marissa’s tough exterior, hoping no one would notice her.
He pressed his knuckles against his teeth. Now that Abby and Cassie had given him the right clues, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t recognized the symptoms. She was like him, hiding some shameful secret she didn’t want anyone to know. Something so bad that it made her reckless—even a little foolhardy—as if she didn’t believe her life was worth much.
Too bad for her Abby had slipped and revealed more than she should. Or had she? His eyes narrowed as he went back over the scene in the psychologist’s office, examining the nuances. Abby had told him she thought he’d be good for Marci. Had that been a calculated maneuver? Part of her plan to get him on her side?
He sighed. Whatever it was, it had worked. It had even starting him wondering if he and Marci could help each other, since neither of them felt there was much to lose.
Of course,