Escape Out of Darkness (17 page)

“The hell you will. I’m not going to let them kill—” She
didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Mack’s devastating fist shot out, and she had only enough time to register a faint surprise. Then everything went mercifully blank, just as she heard the volley of gunfire in the distance.

It started with a slow, throbbing pain in her head. Not just the top of her head but the whole damned thing, starting with her jaw, radiating up through her cheekbones, throbbing through her ears, stabbing her eyes. Even her hair hurt. She lay in a tumble, trying not to move, all her energy concentrated on the hope that if she could just hold still it wouldn’t hurt so much.

It was a vain hope. It took her a few moments to realize she was being jounced along in the darkness at a rapid pace, another minute to recognize the backseat of the Jeep Cherokee. Even from her semicomatose state she could see the lightening sky through the windows. She must have been unconscious for a long time for it to be dawn already.

Then other things began to intrude—gunfire, screams, and the unmistakable smell of fire. And Maggie realized it wasn’t dawn lighting the sky behind them. It was the burning village of Chicaste.

The Jeep bounced over something, careened to the left, and then pulled straight ahead. She didn’t dare move her head or even try to lift it, when the slightest effort might make it fall off her neck and roll on the floor. She lay there, panting slightly as she tried to control the pain, and then she remembered.

It was Mack driving the Jeep at such a murderous pace through the jungle. It was Mack who’d slugged her in the jaw, knocking her unconscious and possibly loosening every tooth in her head. It was Mack who’d stopped her from trying to save
poor Consuela. The memory of that volley of bullets came back to haunt her, and she could feel her fists clench.

The bastard, she thought, not moving as the Jeep racketed along. The heartless, despicable bastard. How dare he interfere, how dare he hit her, how dare he take over, ignoring her, forcing his will on her, treating her like an idiot?

The answer was simple and unavoidable. Because she had been an idiot. There was no way she could have helped Consuela—she could only have brought the further wrath of the Liberation Army down on their heads. But she’d been too furious to realize it, and Mack’s cooler head had prevailed, stopping her from killing both of them. She owed him her life.

It wasn’t an easy thing to live with. He’d helped her more than once, but it had never been as clear as it was now. She had no choice but to face the fact that her own stupidity had almost screwed them completely. And she’d needed to be rescued from herself.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. If only they could go back a few hours, maybe … But no, she knew she’d do the same thing again. She couldn’t calmly climb in the Jeep as they shot an innocent victim like Consuela. She’d always have to fight, even if it killed her. But she had to wonder how Mack could live with the memory of Consuela’s lost eyes as she faced her executioners.

“Am I about to have a gun placed to the back of my head?” His rough voice broke through her absorption. “If so, you’d better give me some warning.”

Instinctively, she felt for the gun. It was still tucked in the waist of her jeans. “Why should I put the gun to the back of your head?” God, it hurt to talk! Her jaw felt as if it was made of cement, and even her eyelashes ached.

“Because I forcibly overruled you. There wasn’t time for a democratic discussion of the issue.”

Slowly, gritting her teeth, she pulled herself into a sitting position. There was no way it wasn’t going to hurt, and the only
thing she could do was ignore the pain. She took a deep, shaky breath. “So might makes right?”

“In this case.”

“Did they kill her?” Her voice was flat, emotionless.

“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know?”

She considered it. “You don’t lie. At least, you haven’t lied to me. I heard the gunfire before you slugged me. Are you telling me you didn’t see whether she fell?”

“They weren’t shooting at the people lined up in the square. They were shooting at your friend Willis,” he said grimly. “He must have thought he could sneak past them when they were busy with their prisoners. He was mistaken.”

“Did they kill him?” She was no more than distantly interested.

“I expect so. He fell. I didn’t stop to watch. I just drove the hell out of there before they could stop us.” He quickly glanced back at her. “Do you mind?”

“About Willis? No. He was bound to come to a bad end sooner or later.”

“What about me?” Mack persisted, and she could hear the diffidence, the peculiar uncertainty in his voice.

“What about you?” she countered.

“Are you planning to use that gun on me for interfering?”

“Do I have to say it?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” she said wearily. “You were right, I was wrong. You did what you had to do, and I’m grateful. I’d like to break your neck, but I’m grateful. Will that do?”

“It’s a start.”

“What the hell do you want from me? Do you want me to grovel at your feet?”

“No. I’d like it not to be so hard for you to be wrong once in a while. That’s all. Nobody’s perfect, Maggie May. Not even Superwoman.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, and she felt her anger slip away.

She wanted to reach out and touch him. She wanted to reach
over and turn off the car and climb into his arms and hide there. She wanted to cry against the warmth of his chest. No man had seen her cry in twelve years, and she’d promised herself no man ever would again. But now she wanted to cry to Mack.

But the flames still lit the sky behind them, and the sound of gunfire carried through the dense underbrush, and they couldn’t afford to wait. “I’ll try and remember that,” she said, deliberately making her voice light and wry. “You got any idea where we’re headed?”

“Back to Danli. We’ll take a commuter plane out to La Ceiba, and then see what sort of connections we can make for Zurich. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“I haven’t changed my mind. Van Zandt’s been stringing us along, and the only way we’re going to put a stop to it is to find him. I told you, you can stay—”

“Don’t bother telling me again, Maggie. Whither thou goest …” he said. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. You want to tell me about him?”

“Who? Van Zandt?” She was stalling.

“You know damned well who. Raymond, Ralph, whatever his name was.”

“Randall,” she said, facing the inevitable. “You want to tell me about your love life, Mack? If it’s going to be such a long night, I’m sure you’ve got a hell of a lot more to tell.”

“Somehow I get the impression it wouldn’t be half as interesting as you and Randall.”

“How about we save it for some other long night?” Maggie suggested a little desperately.

“That bad, is it? You can’t even talk about it. I guess Willis was right when he said they didn’t think you’d get over it. Apparently you haven’t. Who are ‘they,’ by the way?”

“Can’t you take no for an answer?”

“Not tonight. I’ve been pushed to the edge, Maggie, and I need some distraction. Tell me about Randall. And ‘they.’ ”

Maggie sat as still as she could in the bouncing backseat. And then with a sigh she capitulated, climbing over into the front
seat and almost kicking Mack in the face. “ ‘They,’ I imagine, were Willis and the other people I worked with at the CIA. And Randall, most likely.”

“Randall was CIA too?”

“No. Randall was a private citizen with a low threshold for boredom. He was head of a huge import/export conglomerate, and he was more than happy to help out the government on any little matter, as long as it was dangerous.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“Randall was good at getting people out of tight situations. An agent was trapped in Eastern Europe, and Randall went to help him. I was assigned to the case.” Her words were clipped and emotionless.

“And what happened?”

“I got involved with Randall. Not realizing that he wasn’t involved with me. When the situation exploded Randall disappeared, I quit the company, and we all lived happily ever after.” She turned to stare at Mack’s averted profile. “It was no big deal. Everyone gets a broken heart somewhere along the way—Randall was mine. It happened a long time ago, and I got over it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Her answer was flat, unequivocal, and completely certain.

“When?”

“You can’t let anything alone, can you?” she shot back. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you. I just want to know how long it took.”

“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.”

“Is he dead?”

“Bodies usually are,” he replied. “Did you find us a pilot?”