She’d also been in a Latin country long enough to know that you don’t question a man’s power in front of his underlings. So she nodded, ducking her head again.
“Put her in with the Englishman,” the older man said.
A flurry of Spanish greeted that pronouncement, clearly protests, but he shut them off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Just in case any of you decide to disobey my orders,” he said. “The Englishman is a romantic – he’ll make certain you keep your hands off her.”
One of the jackals said something, then spat. The boss still spoke in English, clearly to be sure she understood. “You will do as I tell you.”
She was hauled to her feet with rough hands, and she just barely managed to keep her balance, but at the last minute she locked her knees and threw her shoulders back, standing upright. Anything to keep them from putting their filthy hands on her again.
She was hungry, dizzy, and lucky they’d allowed her a few moments in the bushes to pee a number of hours ago. The ground was rough under her feet, but she had no choice. This time they tied her arms behind her back, and she stumbled into the undergrowth, Carlos and his friend on either side of her.
She understood more than they thought she did. She concentrated on their voices and the rough footing underneath as they pushed her deeper into the trees. They were arguing, but at least the consensus was they wouldn’t touch her now. Not until something happen
ed to el jefe.
She could barely see the hut in front of her – the night was overcast, the moon invisible. She stumbled and fell against the rough wood and it creaked in protest. She heard the door open and a moment later she was sent sprawling into the darkness, landing hard on the rough dirt floor. What little light had come from the overcast sky was now gone entirely, and she was trapped in the darkness, blind, helpless.
A moment later a light flared, and she closed her eyes against the glare. The smell of sulfur followed the match, and she squinted, trying to take in the bearded, long-haired figure sitting cross-legged across the small room.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” came the dry voice from the darkness. “As if things weren’t bad enough.” And he blew out the match.
Finn MacGowan leaned back against the rough wall of the shed and contemplated fate, that fickle bitch. Izzy and the new kid were wandering off, complaining bitterly and fantasizing about what they would do to the new arrival the moment they had the chance. MacGowan wasn’t particularly squeamish, but he was glad the woman either couldn’t hear or couldn’t understand what they were saying. If she did she’d be screaming bloody murder.
“No.” Her voice was flat, calm, as she struggled to sit up. He could see her quite clearly – the match had momentarily blinded him but once he blew it out he found he could concentrate on her silhouette and take in all the basics. Late twenties, maybe even thirties, long golden hair that would probably attract snakes, expensive clothes and shoes. They’d chosen someone with money this time – maybe the Guiding Light was finally getting smarter.
“No, what?” he said, curious.
“No, I don’t happen to be Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she said, wiggling herself into a sitting position. “My name’s Beth Pennington.”
He would have been impressed with her coolness if he hadn’t heard the betraying wobble in her voice. “I won’t lie and say I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “You have any idea why they put you in with me? I don’t suppose you’re my reward for good behavior?”
He saw her silhouette jerk nervously, but her voice in the darkness was still calm. “As far as I could tell the General thinks you’ll keep me safe from Carlos and his rabid friend. Apparently you’re a romantic.”
He couldn’t help it – he laughed. Faced with one major monkey wrench in his plans for escape, all he could do was appreciate the absurdity of it. “Afraid not, darlin’,” he said. “I’d as soon cut your throat as look at you. If I had to.”
There was a sensible pause from the silhouette in the darkness. “Then I should probably not give you a reason to,” she said. “Who are you? How long have you been here?”
He had a number of names he could offer her, but in the end they wouldn’t make much difference. One or both of them would probably be dead in the next twenty-four hours – it didn’t matter if she knew his real name or not.
“MacGowan,” he said.
“You’re Irish.”
Score one for the new kid – he’d been using his generic BBC voice. “When I want to be,” he said. “When did they take you? Where were you?”
“Why do you care?” It wasn’t a hostile question. In all, she seemed more curious than hysterical with fear the way most of the female hostages were.
“I don’t,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out exactly where we are. If I know where you came from and how long it took them to bring you here that would help me pinpoint where we are.”
“I was in the town of Talaca, at the Mission of Santa Luz.”
“Oh, Christ, not another nun!”
“Do I look like a nun? And what have you got against nuns?”
He decided against telling her the truth. “I was raised by nuns, and still have the scars to prove it,” he drawled, using his best Irish.
“I’m an aid worker. I teach English, help Father Pascal . . .” Her voice faltered. “I helped the priest in the infirmary.”