“Why? You want to figure out how long it’ll take me to get over you?” It was bluntly, boldly stated, and she didn’t give a damn. There in the car, with the darkness and the fire and blood all around them, it no longer seemed worth the effort of hiding her feelings.
“Maggie,” he said, “you aren’t ever going to get over me. And that’s a promise. Now answer my question. When did you get over Randall?”
“Last week, damn it.”
He must have been expecting it. He laughed, and the sound was light and soothing and sexy in the still air, bringing life back into a night of death and despair. “When?”
“When you stepped out of the shadows in Moab, Utah. Now shut up and let me ache in peace,” she snapped. “You fractured my jaw, I probably have a concussion, and my whole body hurts from this damned Jeep. Leave me alone, for God’s sake.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully. She held on to both sides of her seat, trying to keep from bouncing, and watched the jungle road ahead. “Just one more thing,” he added.
“What?”
“I’m not going to get over you either. Okay?”
She considered it for a moment, then leaned over to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “Okay,” she said softly.
They reached a small airfield just outside of Danli as dawn broke, the sky gold and gray and greeny orange, which reminded her of the fire they’d left behind.
“I hope you’re going to do better than Lonesome Fred this time,” she said.
Mack smiled at her, and in the early daylight she could see the shadows of exhaustion and something else darken his face. But his eyes were still warm and gentle on her, promising something she didn’t dare ask for.
“Don’t be so smug, Maggie May. It’s your turn to get the pilot.”
Pride and determination reared their twin heads, and she found herself stiffening her back and smiling at him. “You’re a hard taskmaster,” she said, climbing out of the Jeep and landing on the packed earth with a thud.
“No, I’m not, Maggie. Your only taskmaster is yourself.” He leaned back in the driver’s seat and propped his arms behind his head, closing his eyes. “Wake me when it’s time.”
She stared at him
for a long moment. Before she even turned away she heard the gentle sound of a snore in the early morning air, and when she headed across the airstrip she found she was smiling.
It took her longer than it would have taken Mack. First she had to find the tin shack that served as an office for the small airfield, then she had to wait around till someone showed up. She used the time to good advantage, checking out the two twin-engine planes left baking in the early morning sunlight. She liked what she saw. They were in excellent condition, old but beautifully maintained. Either one of them could get them to La Ceiba, without any detours via the Atlantic Ocean.
Maggie squatted down in the dust, leaning against the tin building and squinting into the sunlight. For some unaccountable reason, she felt good. Damned good. Her whole head ached, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she had a hell of a bruise. She would have killed for a cup of coffee and a candy bar. And she had only the faintest idea where she was heading. So why wasn’t she sitting there crying?
Possibly because the sun was shining, the sky was a deep, cerulean blue, and she and Mack were alive and well, lucky to have escaped the slaughter in Chicaste. Once they found Van Zandt they’d find out what the hell was going on. For now she was content to sit in the lazy sunshine waiting for a pilot.
She had to admit that Mack had something to do with her odd peace of mind. He’d certainly done his share to contribute to her sense of physical well-being. She’d been celibate for six months, ever since her relationship with Peter had dissolved, and she’d forgotten just how good sex was. There was even the remote possibility that she’d never known.
Luis Camerera appeared at the tin building at just past nine, according to Maggie’s battered Rolex. He was clean, sober, young, and intelligent, and had spent three years in the tiny Honduran Air Force. Maggie gave him twice what he asked for the flight to La Ceiba and went to fetch Mack.
It took her a while to find the Jeep. He’d moved it, for heaven only knew what reason, she thought as she spied it in some tangled underbrush. Maybe to get it out of the sun, but he could have told her. …
There was no one in the driver’s seat. Suddenly she was very wary. He could have stretched out in the backseat or he could be stretched out across the two front seats, but somehow she doubted it. Her instincts were screaming at her, and she crossed the last few yards to the Jeep at a dead run.
It was empty. No sign of Mack, no sign of the knapsack that held all their worldly goods. The only thing in the brand-new Jeep Cherokee was blood, all over the front seat.
Maggie moaned and sank to her knees beside the Jeep, clinging with numb hands to the door handle. Whoever had gotten Mack probably hadn’t gone far. Whoever it was would most likely return and finish her too. But she didn’t care. She’d failed him, and now she was more alone than she’d ever been in her entire life.
“What the hell are you doing, Maggie May?” Mack’s voice was heavy with irritation and exhaustion. “That’s very artistic, kneeling there, but not too useful. You want to help me cover the body?”
She didn’t move for a long moment, as relief washed over her with such force that she shook. She grinned down at the dust beneath her, releasing her grip on the door handle, but when she rose and turned back to Mack her expression was bland.
“Whose body?” she inquired.
Mack wasn’t fooled. He jerked his head toward the underbrush. “God knows. The rebels, the Liberation Army, maybe even CIA. I didn’t have any say in the matter—when I opened my eyes his knife was heading for my throat.”