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“I wasn’t really going to hurt you the other night.” I curl my
fingers around the bottom of the knife and carefully take it from his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand. It’s an automatic response to someone invading your space.” He sits down next to me and stretches his legs out in front of him. “I know a little something about that. I have pretty bad
post-
traumatic-stress syndrome, and since I’m supposedly dead, no one
can really help me. I can’t talk to anyone about what’s in my head, and I can’t escape my own mind—not even for a second.”

I keep my focus on his eyes, watching his gaze become lost in the
caverns over the horizon. I try to extract information from people’s minds and he’s trying to extract memories out of his own mind. Maybe there’s a reason we did find each other. “You can talk to me,”
I say.

I flip open the knife and drag its blade against the coarse plastic. The pouch opens and I expect a scent to pour out, but all I smell is
more plastic. I flip the knife shut and hand it over to him, but he’s already slicing his bag open with another knife. I peek inside, trying to figure out what I’m looking at since this meal looks like it should come with instructions. So I pour the contents onto my lap and place
all of the items in front of me—lots of thick brown bags with black text written across each, an empty bag and a small bag filled with condiments.

“Put those two into the clear bag and add water. The bag will heat it up. Season to perfection, and eat when it’s hot. Top it off with a little pound cake, and you’ll think you’re eating at a five-star restaurant.” His smile is playful, and his excitement to eat this crap is
a little baffling, but I’ll go with it.

After preparing my meal for a few minutes, I shove the plastic fork into the bag and pull out a mouthful. When the food douses my tongue, I realize I didn’t add the seasoning. The corners of my lips
pull down,
but I try to force them back up. He brought food, regardless of its
less than desirable taste.

He laughs through his nose and hands me the salt and pepper. “Want mine too?”

I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to eat this food without seasoning. I’ll deal with the one packet of each. “No, thank you. I’m sure you need it.”

“You learn to forget about seasonings when you’re under fire. You eat to survive, not to taste.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” I don’t want to look like a bigger
weakling than I already do.

After I added the salt and pepper, it was manageable. I’ve had about ten bites and my stomach has stopped rumbling, so I think I should be good now. I place the fork down on my lap and down some water. “No. You need to finish that. Five thousand calories will keep you going through this trek. Plus, it’s another rule you made.
Nothing
but fattening foods. Right?” he asks, emphatically pointing his fork at me while he talks. “Not to scare you, but we haven’t endured anything
yet. Tomorrow’s going to be harder.” He empties the remaining
contents from his bag into his mouth and then crumples the bag up into his hand. “We just need some sleep and food, and we’ll be fine. We should be able to reach him by nightfall tomorrow.” If tomorrow is
going to be harder and he had trouble today, I’m worried about what his health is going to do.

I dig the fork back into the bag and pull out larger mouthfuls,
hoping
to swallow more and taste less. “How do you know my dad hasn’t
moved since he sent you the original coordinates?”

He pauses for a minute, probably pondering my question. “I don’t. But I have to trust that since he gave me the first set of coordinates, he’d follow up with new ones, as well. He said they were for an emergency.”
He looks away from me, seemingly ashamed. “This isn’t quite an
emergency, so if he is where he says he is, I’m the one who’s not
trustworthy. Not him.”

“This
is
an emergency, Tango. You’re dying.”

“Cali, there are a group of assistants your dad worked with in China who are after him. I can assume they’ve been offered a lot of money to return what he has to them. Along with those assistants, the private organization he stole from is after him as well, obviously.
This shit your dad has is a big deal. If it can cure cancer, and he’s hiding out with it, what do you think is going to happen when he’s found?”

Reaper was after me for this exact reason. He wanted to use me as bait for Dad. For a split second, the thought makes me wonder if Tango has been lying to me and he’s working with one of those two groups of people. What if I’m just the bait, as always? What if Tango isn’t really sick? Maybe he doesn’t need the drug to survive. Maybe he’s just after it like the others. Maybe he’s making me fall for him, so I weaken and trust him.

The echo of Mom’s voice rings loudly in my head. I shouldn’t
trust him, or anyone. What have I done?

TANGO

SUNSETS IN IRAQ
looked the same. It was the only time of day
where I
would consider the place to be beautiful. Although that moment sometimes only lasted for a second until I heard shots fired in the
distance. Sad as it may be, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the
same sound here in these apparently calm and quiet canyons. Too many people are after Eli.
Too many people know what he has. Too many people want the
reward for returning it.

I can’t help but wonder how long Cali can keep up this
alpha girl
act. I don’t care who you are, if you aren’t physically trained to survive in these conditions, complaints should accompany the
flushed look on
her cheeks, the sweat soaking up all of the material on her shirt, and
the darkening sunburn on her arms and neck. Yet, not one complaint, moan,
whine, whimper—nothing. She hasn’t said a word. She just keeps trudging on. In truth, I find this extremely sexy. Although at the
moment, she looks like something just bit her ass. She looks pissed again, and I’m guessing I’m in for another mood swing. “Something wrong?” I ask, worried to hear a response.

“Are you really sick?” she asks. The question quakes through
me. She thinks I’m Reaper. She thinks I’m here to screw her over.

“I’m not sure how to prove it besides coughing up more blood.
Maybe when I drop dead you’ll believe me then.” I know I just
pissed
her off, but I’m a little shocked she just questioned my motives. I’ve been honest with her. I’ve told her everything, things I shouldn’t
have
even told her, and she still doesn’t believe me. What else am I
supposed to do to prove myself?

CALI

Tango stands up and brushes the dirt off his backside. “Grab your Camelbak. We need to go find water,” he says coldly.

I nod my head and follow his lead. I wouldn’t survive in the wilderness myself. We’ve been walking for twenty minutes and if Tango disappeared, I would have no clue how to make it back to our campsite. At least I hear running water, and the fresh smell
permeates my nose. As we walk closer, a slight mist developing in the warm air
prickles against my hot skin, causing tiny bumps to rise in response to the temperature distinction. The sound of cascading water thunders louder and the white noise soothes my recent internal
tension.

When we come to a clearing in the rocky terrain where trees are sprouted along the curvature of a sudden drop, I see the spray of the falls colliding against the gorges, inviting us to peek over the edge.
The drop from the top is about fifteen feet, but the rocks look
suitable for descending lower.

Tango lowers himself down the first few rocks and looks at me.
He doesn’t reach his hand out, but the expression on his face is
questioning
if I need help coming down. I don’t. If those hands touch me again . .
. ugh. This is hopeless. I’ve already let this go too far.

I turn around and carefully lower myself down to the first flat rock. The sharp edges scrape against my skin, but I ignore it. I watch as he lowers himself down another rock and I notice his body
doesn’t skim
along the side of the edge like mine just did. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to hold my weight off the rock like he is. I lower myself
down
again, but this time my foot slips from one of the lips in the crag. My leg falls against the coarse edges once more, and a sting burns up my leg.

“Quit being so stubborn and give me your hand,” he shouts at
me from below. “Dammit, Cali, you’re bleeding.” I glance down at
my leg and see a trickling red teardrop cascading down my skin. I slide
my hand into Tango’s and his other hand wraps around my waist,
pulling me down from the rock I’m hanging from.

We’re only a few small boulders away from water and he helps me down the remaining steps. “Sit,” he demands.

He pulls a green rag out of his back pocket and dips it into the water, all while never taking his eyes off me. If he is playing me, he’s damn good at what he does.

I feel the damp rag drape over the gash. He presses firmly, applying enough pressure that I scoot backward a few inches. He pulls the rag off
to inspect the injured area and his hands wrap around my leg,
elevating
it off the rock. “Good one. Probably could use a few stitches.”
Obviously,
that’s not happening here. He pulls another rag out of his back pocket. It looks like a piece of torn cloth, a T-shirt maybe. He twists the material around his hands and wraps it tightly around my leg,
securing it with a knot. The material feels as though it’s cutting off my circulation, but I trust—no, I don’t. I hope he knows what he’s doing.

I inspect my hands for further damage, and I think they’re only
superficial scratches. I lean down beside the rock and swish my
hands
through the water, watching the spiral cloud of floating moss swirl around my fingers. Tango pulls the Camelbak off from around my shoulders and dunks the plastic bag into the water. “Is this water safe to drink?” I ask.

“No.” He shoves his hand into his left cargo pocket and pulls out
a small tablet. “Iodine will clean the water and make it suitable to drink.” He drops the tablet into the water pouch and shakes it around.
“It takes about thirty minutes.” He hands my bag over to me and repeats the process again for his water. After dropping the tablet in, he
looks over at me with irritation darkening his eyes. “Just for
your information, I
do in fact have cancer. I am dying. I don’t want to die, and like I said, I’m fucking scared as hell. I’m not just using you to reach your dad. You’re the one who suggested finding him for the treatment,
remember? I’m not the bad guy, Cali.”

“I want to trust you, but I’d be lying if I said I did. And when there is no trust, paranoia can seep in through even the thickest skin. You say certain things that make me question everything, especially if I should really be here. I know this was my idea, but—” I sigh, frustrated with where this has gone and where it’s going. “Look, we’re complicating things—you know, pretending like there’s
something more than
sexual tension between us. I’ve known you for a week, Tango. You’re hot. You say the right things at the right times and you know how to make a girl swoon, but none of that proves your honest
motives for being here. I’m sorry.”

He looks at me for a minute, taking in my words, maybe
thinking
of a suitable response. “No, Carolina,
I’m
sorry if I haven’t proven enough to you. I don’t know what else to do to make you trust—no,
sorry—have a little faith in me.”

His words lead to silence, accentuating the screams of my internal battle. I feel like I’m gambling with my safety and the anxiety is driving me mad. It’s not like I can just convince myself
that I’m not in this situation, and I can’t exactly control how I feel about this, about him.
This is why I don’t involve myself with people. This is why I promised not to fall for anyone again. I can’t even fucking trust
myself to do the right thing.

I’m the one who can’t be trusted.

Deciding which direction I should continue on with, I close my eyes to listen to the sound of leaves brushing against each other from
the slight breath of the wind. My heart has stopped hammering against
my ribcage and I feel it’s safe to open my eyes. I feel it’s safe to go
with my gut on this one.

 “Tango . . . ”

“I don’t like the way you just said my name, Carolina.”

 “Look . . . I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to believe you, and while I wanted that kiss to last a whole hell of a lot longer than it
did, I know I shouldn’t be getting involved with you, or anyone for that matter. I don’t want to be hurt again.” If what I’m saying is true, why is my heart punching me from the inside. My throat feels tight,
as if it’s
trying to stop me from saying what I’m saying. I’m so fucking
lonely, and I’m so quick to push anyone and everyone away.

“I—wow. I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. You’re right. The trust needs to be there before anything should ever happen between us. I was being impulsive and I
shouldn’t have been. I read you wrong, and that’s a hard one for me to admit. I wish you would have said something sooner.”