Shattered (30 page)

Sometime before dawn, Kirby climbed out of the warm bed and finally got around to using the dye Gwendolyn Patterson had left for her. It was an ordinary brown, which, she decided, looking in the mirror, was exactly the point. If she and Shane stood out, the chances of them making their way to the clinic undetected could be compromised.

But still, after a night of fabulous sex that, except for a faint headache she put off to lack of sleep, had left her feeling feminine and sexy, she wanted to look that way, too.

Instead, she was back in the boring, utilitarian white blouse and navy skirt. She’d change into the cammies she’d bought on Swann Island once they reached the pyramid and hooked up with the others.

“Well? What do you think?” Shane was sitting at the table, studying a map. He looked up at her.

“You could be wearing a potato sack and you’d be beautiful to me.”

“I was talking about my hair.” She ran her fingers through the cut that no longer felt as carefree.

“It looks fine.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s wrong with fine?”

“ ‘Fine’ is just another word for ‘boring.’ ”

“No.” He leaned back and studied her more closely. “Fine is fine. Actually, it looks great.”

“I’ll bet you like me better as a blonde.”

He took a long drink of the coffee he’d brewed while she’d been in the bathroom, then looked at her over the rim of the cup. “This is one of those trick female questions, isn’t it? Whatever I answer, it’s going to be wrong.”

“It’s not a trick. It’s a simple question. Do you like me better as a blonde or a brunette?”

“Sweetcakes, I’d adore you if you decided to go back into that Taj Mahal of a bathroom, take my razor, and went for a Bruce Willis look. Not that it wouldn’t probably draw some attention to us, which, I believe was the reason for the change in the first place, but hey, if that’s what you want to do, go for it.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go bald!”

Was she really shouting? What on earth was wrong with her? “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just nervous about today.” She rubbed a finger between her eyes.

“Headache?” he asked.

“It’s just a lack of sleep. Not that I’m complaining,” she said quickly. “Or stress from that gunfight at the O.K. Cantina last night.”

“Again, perfectly understandable. You also could be jet-lagged. You’ve done a lot of traveling in three short days.”

“It seems longer.”

“I know.” He left the room, went into the bathroom, and came out with two tablets and a glass of water. “Take some vitamin M. You’ll feel better.”

“Ah, the Special Ops answer to everything.”

“Sometimes simple works best.”

“So says the bionic man.”

He’d explained to her that his leg utilized computer chips, Bluetooth technology, and myoelectric impulses, all of which had been used in other prostheses before. But what made his leg so revolutionary was that each of his new prostheses literally plugged into a device embedded in his remaining limb, which allowed electronic signals from his brain to be rerouted through to his new leg through a process called targeted muscle reinnervation.

“The new grafted nerves grew into the muscles, and from there the doctors connected the dots, inserting electrodes that makes a closed loop between my leg and my brain. So it pretty much works like a real leg.”

“We’re going to have to rename you Steve Austin,” she said, deciding that once she got back to the States, she was definitely going to do more research on this. The superior body armor prevented deaths, but left many of the troops with wounds that cost them at least one limb. To Kirby’s mind, they were all heroes and deserved the best medical research could provide.

“I’m still the same guy I always was,” he said. “Just ’cause I got lucky and got put into the program sure as hell didn’t give me superpowers. Or make me better than any of the other guys who fought over there. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Later, as they drove the white Toyota out of the city, Kirby was stunned at the devastation as they neared the ruins.

“All this was lush green farmland three days ago,” she said, staring out over a gray desert, covered with ash.

The air was thick and hazy, the villages, with their shuttered markets and abandoned houses, looking like ghost towns.

Above the desolation, Ixtab was still smoking.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, as they passed one village where people were gathered in the street, watching the ash spitting into the sky. Many were dancing in an attempt to appease the angry goddess. “I’ve only seen one minor eruption since I’ve been here, but the army closed the entire region off because of all the gas emissions.”

“If it’s true about Vasquez trying to leave the country, the army’s probably in chaos,” Shane suggested. “Which was why those guerillas last night felt free to bring their attack from the rural area into the city.”

“Then we could well be looking at a civil war.”

“I think you’ve already got one,” he pointed out as they drove over a narrow wooden bridge. Women, their skirts pulled up and tied to their hips, were beating ash-laden clothes on the rocks, as women had been doing for centuries. “It’s just now going to become really official.”

“Which could definitely cause the few countries who have been trying to help to pull out completely.”

“There is that,” he agreed. “There’s also the possibility that Madrid will be able to be a uniter.”

“Yeah. Where have I heard that before?” she muttered.

Deciding to talk about something less depressing, she realized that there were years of his life when he’d been in the service that he couldn’t talk about. Just as he hadn’t been able to talk about missions when he returned to the Green Zone.

“So,” she said, trying another topic, “what was it like, growing up on a ranch?”

“It had its good points. We were isolated, but we were independent. And although we never had much money, we never felt poor. There’s an old saying that ranchers make over, make do, or do without. Which is pretty much the way it is.”

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Not really. My brother and brother-in-law have pretty much taken over the day-to-day running of the ranch. And, although it’s probably heresy, I always found cows boring.”

“Yet you rode bulls.” She remembered him telling her that the night he suggested she save a horse and ride a cowboy.

“Yeah. Well, that was different.”

“I was channel surfing one night when I was back in the States, visiting my folks for Christmas,” she said. “And caught the national championship bull-riding competition. It was amazing.” She had no trouble imagining him atop those huge, bucking animals. “Is that what you did?”

“Mostly. When I was younger I did some steer wrestling, but I gave that up because I wasn’t big enough.”

She tilted her head as her gaze swept over him. “You’re not exactly lightweight.”

“The minimum weight of a competition steer is four hundred and fifty pounds,” he said. “Along with a serious understanding of gravity, it helps for a cowboy to be strong enough to bring a steer down by sheer muscle force. If you can’t do that, things can get dangerous real quick, since steers do not, as a general rule, appreciate being wrestled.”

“Yet the announcer said that bull riding is the most dangerous rodeo sport.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

“And you weren’t afraid?”

“Not really. Beforehand, you’re too busy feeling the bull out, running through the ride in your mind, to be afraid. Then, during the ride, there’s too much to think about—staying on and winning points from the judges—to be scared. Then there’s the adrenaline rush.”

“But it only lasts, what? Ten seconds?”

“Eight. It just seems longer. Sorta like a slow-motion replay. Or jumping out of a plane.”

“Or like last night at the restaurant.”

“Exactly. There’s nothing like thinking you might die to make you fully appreciate the value of living.”

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“Bull riding?”

“No. The Army.”

“Yeah,” he surprised her by saying. “I didn’t think I would, especially since I was all the time bucking the rules. But yeah. I loved being in the air, and I loved flying those birds. So, sure, there are times I miss it.” He reached between them and took her hand. “But not nearly as much as I missed you.”

“That’s nice.”

“It’s the truth,” he said simply.

They’d left the ash-covered fields behind, driving through vast fields of tobacco that often hid marijuana between the rows. The same volcano that made living in its shadow so dangerous was also the cause of fertile soil.

They passed the banana plantations, where segadores harvested the still-green fruit with swift swings of the razor-sharp machetes.

A convoy of army trucks passed, headed away from the volcano. The young, conscripted soldiers were dressed in jungle camouflage, much as Kirby had bought on Swann Island. They seemed to be coming down from the mountain villages, the truck drivers arrogantly taking up the center of the narrow dirt road, forcing Shane to pull the Toyota far to the right, nearly off the shoulder.

“They seem to be in a hurry,” Kirby said.

“Something’s definitely happening,” Shane agreed.

With a maniac pounding away at her head, like those women had been pounding their clothes on the rocks, Kirby didn’t even want to try to figure out whatever was going on could mean for Rachel.

They’d nearly reached their destination and were driving along the bank of Lake Itzamna when Shane’s cell phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID.

“Yo.” He frowned a bit as he listened, then nodded. “No sweat. We’re about ten minutes away, so we’ll just hang out and get something to eat while we’re waiting.”

He snapped the phone shut. “That was Tremayne. They had a little trouble and are running about an hour behind. But they figure if they can pick up a ride, they’ll make up the time.”

“What kind of problem?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But everyone’s all right?”

“Seems to be.”

That, at least, was something, Kirby decided.

On normal days, fishermen from local villages plied the lake in dugout canoes, while boats ferried passengers from one town to another. Today, due to the impending storm and, perhaps, Ixtab’s increased activity, the wind, known locally as Xocomil, had turned the usually placid waters of the crystalline lake into treacherous waves.

On the far side of the lake were the ruins of the once mighty pyramid built to honor Masaya, the Mayan goddess of fire and divination, who required that victims be thrown into volcanoes.

And conveniently, Ixtab, named for the protector of suicides, slain warriors, sacrificial victims, priests, and women who died in childbirth, just happened to be less than a kilometer away.

The first time she’d seen it, Kirby had stared up at it, looming over the landscape, mysterious, deadly, but still enthralling. It took no imagination at all to understand why volcanoes in mythology were either considered gods or goddesses or inhabited by gods, revered, worshipped, or feared as gateways to hell.

There was a cantina with a shabby motel attached for tourists. From the vinyl decals stuck on the doors of the various vehicles filling the lot, it appeared that most of today’s visitors were volcanologists.

The sun had come out, leaving the temperature in the nineties, the humidity just as high. Last night’s rain, rather than cooling things down, had only added to the stultifying discomfort.

The cantina was actually more of a shack, a far cry from last night’s beachfront restaurant. The unpainted walls were caked with dirt and the floor was covered with what appeared to be ash.

An oppressive cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the space, while a rusty paddle-bladed fan creaked overhead in a futile attempt to move the fetid air.

“We can wait in the Toyota,” Shane suggested, as they took in the bartender who looked like an escapee from a chain gang. His dark eyes were as empty as a snake’s, which complimented the red and blue tattooed reptiles wrapped around his bulky arms.

“No. It’s like an oven in there.”

“It’s like a sewer in here.”

Kirby shivered as a tarantula the size of her fist scuttled across the floor and up the screen door, escaping through a hole in the ratty black mesh. Although it was not yet ten o’clock, her blouse and skirt were clinging damply to her skin. At this moment, were it not for Rachel, she would have given anything to be back at the hotel, in that oversized tub. This time with it filled with ice cubes.

“We’re tourists,” he said. “Let’s act like it.” He went over to the bartender. “I don’t suppose you’d have a guide to the pyramid?”

Reptilian eyes narrowed. “What the fuck do I look like,” the guy, obviously an expatriot American or Aussie, shot back. “Fucking Fodor’s?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Shane smiled. “We’ll just figure it out for ourselves.”

Having studied a bit about the ruins when she’d first arrived in the country, Kirby was able to do a reasonable tour-guide spiel.