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  Stepping firmly and as quietly as possible, Ali looked up and guessed the exit from this hell was a few hundred yards away. Gun groaned and tried to stand up straight, his eyes closed.

  “I see the trail now. Gun, move your feet, man. It’s right there.”

  He gave up. Oh, hell, no. He had passed out, sagging to the water and looking like death.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she hissed into his ear. “Crybaby, weak-kneed pussy.”

  She hated herself for goading him, but it seemed to work.

  “Bitch ... I’m no ...” He held on to her waist and pulled himself up, her arm doing most of the work.

  “Good, just remember that.” Ali cried openly now. Gun didn’t know what was going on. Time to be tough later.

  Things were going pretty damn good. He was moving those size-thirteen clodhoppers. Her legs were strong, holding up well under the stress. She couldn’t help but glance around, checking on anything that moved.

  Oh, God. The python rose to the surface and made a whipping motion toward them, his huge mouth open, evil as hell. Ali no longer cared about the noise. She yanked her handgun from the holster and put a bullet in the serpent’s head. The terrifying thing instantly jerked back, shaped itself into a dozen glistening brown coils in the throes of death, and rolled away from them. Every living animal for miles around squawked or flew off in a clatter of deafening noise.

  The business of getting out of the bloody water became all-important. With only a few yards left to cover, Gun sagged like two hundred forty pounds of rock. She wanted to hold him and carry him, but she couldn’t. “Do you want me to die, too, Gun?”

  His eyes opened a crack, and he frowned at her. His words were indistinguishable. He grabbed the waistband of her pants, almost ripping them from her tired body. She got her shoulder under his arm and moved on, crossing the last stretch of the demon’s watering hole.

  Her heart pumped with pure joy at the first feel of muddy but solid earth under her boot. Now Gun would have better footing and no unseen danger to worry about. Everything was out in the open now.

  The barking sounded as if it were a few feet behind her. Ali snapped her head around to see a lone dog at the far side of the floodwater, barking excitedly at them. Obviously a pup, or he would be coming after them. She felt bad rushing Gun along, but it was necessary.

  He coughed again, probably from that nasty water. She had a noseful herself. She noticed him trying to pull the .38 from the waist of his Levi’s.

  “I’ll take that.” She pulled the weapon from his hand, and he groaned in protest. “Sorry, Gun. I had to.” The sound of men talking forced her to move off the trail and under the cover of a stand of tall grass.

  Armondez’s men looked for tracks on the far side of the floodwater. Gun was totally out of it, laying his cheek against her head. She patted his hand and adjusted his weight to relieve the ache in her back. The action on the other side of the shallow lake moved away, the dogs leading the group in the direction the mare had gone.

  Gun touched his waist. “Donavon. My weapon.”

  “I’m carrying it for you.”

  She caught the unforgettable, metallic scent of his blood and wanted to break down again. She wouldn’t allow herself that weakness. They were too close to getting out.

  He never gave up. “If anything happens, give it to me.”

  “Sure.” She licked her lips, thirstier than she could ever remember.

  Gun must be dehydrated. Lord, she needed a miracle. She sucked it up and found new courage deep in her tired soul.

  “Gun, come on. They’re waiting for us.”

  He hobbled along beside her for a few steps, but soon sank to his knees. Okay, so she would carry him on her back. She squatted in front of him.

  “Hug my neck. I’ll get us home.”

  His arm went around her neck and then slid away. She turned and unbuttoned his makeshift sling, letting his arm droop. What a foolish move. He couldn’t hold on to anything with that arm. He was trying to help, hugging her neck again with his right arm, groaning as she straightened and struggled to walk stooped over. He was six-foot-four and two hundred forty pounds of deadweight, everything that made carrying him impossible. Ali was determined to carry him until he slid off her and fell back into the muck.

  Desperation devoured her when the high-pitched barking of dogs split the fragile silence. Too wet. Too green and too much everything. Desire to live motivated her now. She grabbed Gun’s hands.

  Wounded or not, she had to drag him. She held his wrists in her grip and trudged forward. Head down, Ali didn’t see the low branch before ramming her head into it.

  The sudden weight that fell onto her shoulder and chest was eerie, and she instantly recoiled in paralyzing terror and dropped Gun onto the ground. A snake began wrapping around her shoulders and neck, slowly, as if it had all day. She screamed in panic. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, God, help me!”

  She didn’t see Gun lift himself up to pull the pistol from her waistband. She could only feel the slick muscles of the serpent writhe slowly around her arms and neck. Screaming, she tore at the slithering ring that worked around her body.

  Falling down next to Gun, she fought to rid herself of the horror sliding over her. Gun was only a blur in her eyes. Only a vision as she felt the weight being pulled away and then heard the wonderful explosion of gunpowder and steel. Gun reached out to her and then dropped the .38 onto the muddy ground.

  “Gun.” She lay over him as much to seek comfort as to give it. He touched her hand and nodded, then closed his eyes. “No, no, you don’t.” Pressing down on his bandaged shoulder, she spoke quietly, amazing herself. “Sleeping is not an option, not yet.”

  She got up and pushed the snake aside with her feet, then grabbed Gun’s hands again to walk on toward their fate. She paused and looked down at his dark head.

  “Gun. Do you have the compass?” She was confused about the directions now. She couldn’t think clearly.

  “My ... pocket ... left pocket.”

  She tore the bottom of her T-shirt off and stuffed it under the first bandage on his shoulder. “Okay. I’ll check to see if we’re moving in the right direction, and we’ll be okay.”

  He didn’t move or speak while she dug deep in his pocket. His body temperature had dropped. Ali lay over him for a few seconds, thinking she should try to warm him. Stop it! You’re wasting precious time.

  Her fingers touched the compass, and she pulled it from his pocket to stare at the needle. Which way? South? Okay. They had been traveling south.

  New resolve burst through her.

  “We’re almost home, Gun.” He didn’t answer in his state of unconsciousness. “That’s all right, cowboy. Sleep. It’ll be easier on both of us.”

  She tucked his pistol back into her waistband and took his hands again. She moved ahead, forcing herself to not look back or stop to check on Gun. The dogs were following them again.

  Her heart stopped. She couldn’t feel it beating. Don’t be crazy. You’re moving. You’re still alive. Her lips were cold, and her ears roared with the tension in her nerves. Taking care of Gun was uppermost in her mind.

  Hurry. Something told her to hurry and she would be safe. Whop-whop-whop. The sound of chopper props filled her with such emotion, she sobbed, struggling forward, following the helicopter as it flew overhead.

  The crew would hover for as long as it took, dropping down a rope ladder and a small gurney seat. God help me. I have to get him there. The aircraft hovered several hundred yards away. Ali renewed her hold on Gun’s wrists and tried to run, dragging him closer to the chopper. She stopped only once when she looked down to see the agonized expression on Gun’s face.

  The cords in her neck stood out in her effort to pull Gun to the center of the clearing. The turbulence kicked up by the chopper blades whipped a storm of waving grass and bushes, plastering her soggy hair against her face. She held onto Gun’s hands and looked up, staring into the friendly face of the United Sta
tes Army.

  Standing under the force of the wind, she reached skyward to grab the rope ladder that fell along with a leather swing. “Gun. Please sit up!”

  He lifted his hand and promptly dropped it. She knelt beside him and worked the sling under his arms. Signaling the guy watching to lift him, Ali started to climb the ladder. One foot on the rope and all hell broke loose.

  She heard the ping of the bullets hitting the chopper before she turned to see a dozen hostiles and three dogs barreling toward them across the field. She didn’t wait for the Rangers to start firing. She pulled her weapon and fired at the leader. He fell and three more took his place. The pain in her arm wasn’t rope burn. She’d been hit. Firing her own weapon, her aim improved and she dropped the three without blinking. Too weary to fight any longer, she let her arm hang limp at her side, and the military took out the rest of the pack. She looked down to see the few men who were left take off, dogs running ahead of them.

  They weren’t home free yet. The hostiles stood at the edge of the clearing, waiting. Gun hung precariously in the swing, which appeared to be twisted. Ali climbed up to where he clung to life and reached out to pull him to her. “Just like the good old days, Gun. Gator-gal is here.”

  Her strong legs wrapped around Gun and held him secure as they were hauled up into the belly of the chopper. When a medic tried to check her arm, she waved him away and tried to hover over Gun. He’d lost so much blood his clothing was dark plum, just like hers. The medics worked over him in rapid efficiency and wouldn’t let her stay by him.

  She went to the rear of the chopper and found a place to break down and lose it completely. She sobbed until there was no more fear. That had been replaced with a numb ache. She didn’t flinch as the medic cleaned her flesh wound and bandaged her arm.

  The medic didn’t question her, just asked if she wanted anything. “A pack of cigarettes and coffee. Is Gun going to make it?”

  “Can’t say, ma’am. But he’s holding his own.” He handed her a plastic bottle filled with cold, clean water. “They’ll take good care of him at the military hospital.”

  Ali had never known such dread. Concern for Gun filled her heart and soul. She wanted to be with him. Edging closer to his stretcher, she saw intravenous fluids being pumped into him, and the bandage on his shoulder was snow white and thick.

  “Ma’am.” A young captain sat down next to her. “You handled that damned well.” He gestured toward Gun. “Gunnison wouldn’t have made it much longer.”

  She nodded, not feeling the least bit reassured by the young man’s words. Gun still looked too pale and too quiet. When they got back to the States, she would tell him exactly how she felt. If she could think of the right words to say.

  Chapter 24

  During the flight to the military hospital outside Bogotá, Ali stayed as near Gun as she was allowed. Funny, even at death’s door, he looked tough, kind of cocky. She studied him with a gentle gaze, knowing he would laugh at her for being so worried. But right now, his deep slumber seemed untroubled.

  Being careful to not touch the equipment she prayed would save his life, she sank down on the floor at the head of his stretcher to keep an eye on him. She thought about how much he had impacted her life in such a short time. And how different life would be without him. Empty.

  Thinking like that wasn’t professional. But, oh, God, she couldn’t help herself. A woman meets a Gun only once in her life. A lifetime of emotion had passed between them. She never expected to feel so alive again. Gun would stay with her in spirit no matter who or what happened to her.

  A monotone radio message from the base took her mind off herself. Ali dreaded getting off the chopper. The questions would start, and she wasn’t sure she had the answers the brass wanted to hear.

  The helicopter set down in an abandoned soccer field. Getting Gun ready to be moved seemed to take an eternity in Ali’s mind. At last, he was lifted off and put into a waiting ambulance. Ali climbed in when he was secured, and they were quickly on their way to the hospital.

  The antiseptic scent was strong, the place squeaky-clean. The corridor was quiet except for the whir of the gurney’s wheels as it was pushed down the hallway.

  Ali wasn’t given time to work herself into a frenzy over Gun’s condition. The moment her wound was bandaged, an aide escorted her to an office a few doors down from surgery to speak with a debriefing officer. She rapped her knuckles on the door and stepped inside the room.

  “Agent Donavon?”

  “Yes, sir.” She didn’t sit immediately; something in her head clicked into military protocol. No, don’t salute. You’re not in the Army.

  He took in her filthy, rag-tag appearance before gesturing to the chair near his desk. “You haven’t had a chance to clean up.”

  He was Mr. Clean, with his shaved head and just-washed shine on his generous nose. Ali figured he’d been promoted quickly up the ranks with those steely blue eyes and chiseled jaw. GI Joe model, probably. She wanted to roll her eyes in disgust. “No, sir. Agent Gunnison and I have been too busy to think about our appearance.”

  He smiled. “No. I appreciate what you’ve been through and what you have done. I won’t detain you long.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll get right to the point. Was Armondez terminated?”

  “If you mean, is he dead. Yes.”

  “How did you make that deduction, and are you sure the man killed was Armondez?” The tone of his voice was a blueprint for a robot game.

  “Sir, we both knew the target intimately, had dinner and went horseback riding with him.” She had been stretched to the limit. “He was a nice-looking man with fine manners and a taste for torture. Yes, I know he’s dead.”

  “How many shots were fired?”

  What the hell was wrong with this guy? “I missed with the first round and cut him down with the second.”

  “Ah, you made a good hit.” He looked at her with a kind of desire that men have for a new fishing rod.

  “Yes. Agent Gunnison was down.”

  The damned room was too small and too quiet.

  “Did he miss his target?”

  Ali stomped down the rage boiling in her gut. “No, sir. He took a round meant for me.”

  That gaze of desire heightened. “And you were left to finish the mission?”

  She glanced at his nametag. “Major Cantrell, is it?” He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself earlier. “Agent Gunnison acted in a manner duly reflecting his training, sir. He saved my life, risked his own to stop Armondez from selling his poison to kids.” She lifted her chin. “Will the FBI take steps to stop the slavery trade of children taking place in his home?”

  Her interrogator nodded. “It’s in the works right now.” He got up and held his hand out to her. “Excellent job, Agent Donavon. I will personally put your name in for a commendation and advancement in the department.”

  Wonderful. Right now she wanted nothing but to get back to Gun and get home. Maybe quit the department. Ali looked down at her battered hands and arms. What the hell was she thinking? Of course she wanted the advancement. Remember the White House. Taking a deep breath, she stood and clasped his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  * * * *

  Ali gratefully accepted the Army-issue clothing from the same aide who had taken her to the interrogation office. The young man had no eye for women’s weight and height; the creased slacks hugged her every bump and curve. Her youngest brother could have worn the small short-sleeved shirt. The thing gaped open a bit, being stretched over her breasts. At least she had a T-shirt under it.

  Being hustled along to get ready for the long flight home helped Ali keep her sanity. Sign papers, have a mini-physical, and answer more questions. She figured her inquiries about Gun were wearing the hospital staff’s patience thin. The answer was always the same: “He’s holding his own.” Knowing the military, that meant he was close to, or was, dead. Cold fear gripped and held her in icy fingers,
inflicting a pain deep and never to be forgotten.

  After getting the aide to promise she would be informed of any change in Gun’s condition, Ali retreated to the waiting room next to the ward he’d been taken to. The aide brought her a pillow and a blanket. At least she would be warm and dry. A deep shudder at the remembered horror swept over her.

  She couldn’t sleep, not while Gun teetered precariously on the precipice of death. Damn. Stop thinking like that. He’ll be fine. He’s holding his own.

  She knew where she had to go. Tossing the blanket aside, she went out into the corridor and approached a nurse at the desk. “Where is the chapel?”

  Nodding her head toward a hallway, the nurse got to her feet. “Straight down the hall and turn left. The steps take you right to the chapel.” She sat down. “They say mass there every morning.”

  “This can’t wait until morning.”

  Ali walked double-time to the hallway and turned left, running down the short flight of steps. The stained-glass door was open and she walked inside the small chapel. Oh, yes, she was not alone in her fear.

  She went to the front of the chapel to light a candle. Crossing herself, she knelt at the communion rail. Her prayer was repentant of being slow to attend mass. Unwise in her choice of mates and conducting her life with devious choices.

  Finally, her prayers became a request to spare Gun’s life, to give him another chance. A wish for Gun to know she wouldn’t really live if he died. Oh, God, I can’t really feel so deeply for him. I can’t. He can’t return that emotion, and I can’t bear being just a friend to him.

  Pressing her hands to her face, she wept bitterly at her own foolishness.

  * * * *

  Gun lay propped against his pillows after another round of drugs and opened his eyes to see what he considered an angel. For three days he’d thought he was dreaming, but she was really there.