“It’s time,” Winter says a while later.
I squeeze her hand to let her know I’ve heard her.
We start to circle back toward the camp, Winter in front of me. But I stop at once. With the moon completely risen, her head of white-blonde hair stands out in the darkness like a beacon.
“Wait,” I call-whisper.
“What?”
“Your hair, it’s too light, it’s unmissable. I could spot it from a mile away.”
“Logan, I’m not staying behind,” she threatens.
“I wasn’t suggesting you did,” I say, not eager to repeat the argument we had earlier on the topic. But I’m not letting her go exposed like that, either. “Come here,” I add, and quickly pull one of my dark shirts out of my backpack.
When she reaches me, I wrap her hair under the fabric, securing the shirt around her head with two tight knots.
She smiles at me throughout the whole process, the hint of flirtation clear on her face—which, by the way, shines just as bright as the hair. Even after two weeks in the tropical sun, her skin is still pearly white and too reflective even in the faint moonlight.
Without giving her any warning, I sink my hands in the moist dirt and smear a generous amount across her cheeks.
Winter sputters in protest. “What are you doing?”
“Covering your face,” I say, adding a smudge to her forehead. “Your skin is too light as well.”
“Really?” She scowls. “You seem to be enjoying yourself an awful lot, Dr. Spencer.”
And, if in the beginning her calling me Dr. Spencer used to annoy me… now the title has a whole different effect.
Not the time.
“It’s for your protection,” I reply, dead serious.
“Well, in that case.” She sinks her hands into the muddy ground and returns the favor, saying, “If you’re into dirt-y foreplay.”
And even if the circumstances are so dire, she manages to crack a smile out of me.
Once the camouflage is complete, we resume the journey toward Tucker’s tent. My muscles scream in protest from all the crouching and crawling, and my body hurts everywhere. The amazing woman next to me must be in the same state of pain and exhaustion, but not a single complaint escapes her lips. And I can’t help it; my chest swells with pride, as if her endurance was my merit somehow.
When we reach the other side of the camp, Winter starts forward toward Tucker’s tent, but I pull her back.
She looks at me questioningly.
“You go get the phone,” I whisper. “There’s something else I have to do.”
“What?” she hisses. “Logan, no! We have a plan, you stick to the plan.”
“I can’t. I can’t leave Archie like that. I have to find him an antibiotic and some water.”
A ray of moonlight hits Winter’s face, and I can see the fear in her features while her brain cogs are furiously at work.
“You get the phone,” she says after a while. “I’ll find the medicine and water for Archie.”
“What? No!” I protest. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ve never been inside Tucker’s tent,” Winter protests. “I have no idea where he keeps the phone and stand no chance of finding it in the dark. And even if I did, I don’t know how it works. The antibiotics are in the supply tent, I know the layout, I can get to them more easily,” she says with finality. “We meet again where we left the backpacks.”
And before I can protest further, she dashes in the opposite direction. I suppress a curse that my plan not to stick to the plan has majorly backfired on me and put her in more danger.
I sigh. Nothing I can do about it now; I have to focus on the task ahead.
I approach Tucker’s tent from the back, slither Smith’s knife out of its sheath, and cut a vertical opening in the tent’s fabric. Before going in, I check the path is clear by spying between the gap. The front of Tucker’s tent is zipped down, and there’s no one inside. Perfect. No one will be able to spot me from the camp.
I slip in and squat on the floor, suddenly disoriented. Without the moonlight filtering in from outside, I’m in complete darkness. Blind, I carefully place the knife back in its sheath so I don’t accidentally stab myself. Then I search the surrounding space with my hands. My fingers finally clasp Tucker’s cot. I grab it and, even if it doesn’t make much of a difference, given the poor light, I close my eyes, trying to remember the layout of my friend’s tent. The window flap should be somewhere above the bed.
I climb on the cot, my heart jumping in my throat when the metal springs squeak. I pause, breathing heavily, while my pulse races into a frenzy and my ears strain for any sign the noise has been heard and that I’ve been discovered. But the night mercifully stays quiet. My thoughts go out to Winter. What is she doing? Has she reached the supply tent? If they catch her… I have to crush the panic rising in my chest. Seeing her trapped once has been enough for a lifetime. Not an experience I care to repeat.
Don’t be silly, Logan, that woman is ten times tougher than any men around here. She survived the jungle with ease, swung across that ravine like Tarzan of the Apes. No way a night incursion is what takes her out.
Right.
She’s probably already waiting at the rendezvous point, wondering what’s taking me so damn long.
Searching the tent’s wall with my fingertips, I finally come in contact with the flap. I roll it up and tie it with the small string attached in its center. The window isn’t big, but it lets enough moonlight into the tent for me to make out shapes. I give my eyes a few more seconds to adjust, and then begin my exploration.
I’m sure the soldiers searched all the tents, so if they didn’t find the phone, it means Tucker must’ve stashed it somewhere out of sight. But where?
I climb off the bed and search the ground underneath. Nothing here.
Next, I move in a clockwise circle around the tent, searching every box, bag, and crevice I can find.
Nothing.
The blasted phone is nowhere to be found.
I sink back on my haunches, racking my brain. Where could my friend have put it?
My eyes drift back to his backpack. I’ve already patted it, and it was only soft fabric inside. Clothes. Nothing more.
But maybe the army guys performed the same superficial search and came to the same conclusion.
I kneel in front of the rucksack and resolve to try every last pocket. When I’ve removed a dozen folded T-shirts, my hands finally bump against something solid. My fingers fasten around a plastic handle, and I pull out the phone case, touching it to my lips. I quickly throw all the discarded clothes back in the sack and restore it to the spot where I found it.
I consider climbing on the bed once again to close the window flap, but I doubt even Smith would notice such a tiny detail. And, anyway, if they come looking, the slash in the back wall will be enough to give away the nightly incursion.
Decision made, I slip out of the tent the way I came in and scamper far away. Giving the camp a wide berth, I retrace my steps to the spot where Winter and I left our meager supplies.
She isn’t there.
My heart falls.
My first instinct is to run back and go look for her, but the ghost of her voice prevents me. “You stick to the plan.”
Right. Even if, worst-case scenario, they caught Winter, the best I can do right now is call for reinforcements. That’s the first priority. At least that way, when I go look for her and probably get myself captured in the attempt, there will be help on the way.
I take the phone out of the case and squat low behind a bush to screen the inbuilt light from sight—in the surrounding darkness, it’d have the same effect as an emergency flare and give away my position, especially if Winter has been found out and Smith is looking for me. On the retro-illuminated green screen, I scroll for preloaded numbers and dial the emergency number of the American embassy in Bangkok.
They pick up on the first ring.
“Hello, this is a distress call from Dr. Logan Spencer…”
Before Logan can start an argument and get both of us caught, I crawl away from him, ending the discussion. The ground is hard under my hands and knees, dotted with small, pointy rocks that attack the flesh of my bare palms and tear at the fabric of my pants each time I move. But I’ve become accustomed to the pain; I’ve lost count of the cuts and bruises on my skin. I swear, if I get out of this alive, I’m going to spend the next month in a Thai spa immersed in a coconut milk and jasmine oil bath, and I’m coming out only to be massaged.
Mmm. The thought of moisturizing lotion, of a hot bath, almost makes me cry with longing. Why couldn’t I be one of those photographers who are content doing weddings and baby photo-shoots? No, I had to seek adventure…
Aha!
I’ve had enough adventures for a lifetime.
A loud snore makes me stop in my tracks and jerks me back to the here and now of my mission. In the semi-darkness, it’s hard to get properly oriented, but I’ve passed two tents since Tucker’s—Logan’s and Archie’s—which means I’m at the main gathering tent. Right behind where the sentry is stationed. Did they fall asleep?
I strain my ears and, there, barely audible amidst the night noises of the rainforest, is the faint breathing of someone fast asleep. And, yep, another soft snoring sound.
So it’s definitely not Smith on guard; he’d never sleep on the job. Not with his enemies still out there. But the other two are cockier—don’t see us as a real threat, I suppose. And thank goodness for that; we need a bit of luck for our plan to work. If we get caught, Archie is dead. Maybe we’re all dead. Who knows what Smith and his minions intend to do with the prisoners.
Still moving carefully—soldiers are renowned for being light sleepers—I proceed to the next tent, my destination.
There, I stop, cursing under my breath. I don’t have a knife to cut my way in from the back as Logan must’ve done in Tucker’s tent by now. That’s why there was a plan, and why people should stick to said plan: so I don’t find myself in need of a knife I didn’t bring as I try to break into a tent no one was supposed to touch.
Nothing good comes out of improvising.
What do I do now?
Well, no other way in than from the front. I take a deep breath and thank my fairy godmother Logan camouflaged my face and hair, and that Smith didn’t take the first watch. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Fairy Godmother. I mean, some girls need a princess gown and a carriage to bring them to the ball. But not me; I’m more the need-an-asleep-soldier-and-camouflaged-face kind of gal.
Slower than before, I crawl forward, keeping my left side close to the wall of the supply tent—the one furthest away from the sleeping sentry. When I reach the end, I peek just my head out of cover and try to assess the situation.
I can make out a dark shape slumped on a chair in the next tent, one booted foot on the ground and the other resting on the armory box. The face is hidden in the shadows, but I’m surer than ever it must be Carter or Montgomery. In the two weeks we’ve been here, I’ve never seen Smith not standing to attention. He probably even sleeps rigid as a pole.
I examine the supply tent beside me and sigh in relief when the entry flap flutters in the night breeze. It’s open! If I had to pull the zipper all the way up, I would’ve died of a heart attack; but with it already unlatched, I can just slither in. I take a few extra seconds to steady my pulse and then scramble forward in a desperate dash.
Inside the tent, I crouch in the middle and pause again, giving my eyes time to adjust to the deeper darkness and straining my ears for any alarm sound. None comes. I haven’t been spotted.
Okay, the medical case was on the far-right corner of the tent last time I used it. I head that way. I search, using my hands more than my eyes; the only light filters in from the moving entrance flap, and it’s not nearly enough to see by properly.
I grab a case and open it, brushing my fingers over the contents.
No, it’s a toolbox.
I move on to the next case.
Radio equipment.
Could we use radios to call for help? Mmm, I don’t know how to operate them, and even if Logan does, in all likelihood they’re short-range. I discard the box and move to the next case, and…
Bingo! The medkit.
My triumph is short-lived. There are dozens of pill bottles inside, and I have no way of telling the paracetamol from the antibiotics from the Imodium. So I take all the bottles and stuff my pockets full.
Now, water.
It takes me forever to find a half-full canteen. When I do, I clutch the bottle to my chest, but I can’t crawl with it in my hands, so I shove it down the front of my shirt, securing the neck under my bra strap.
I’m already lifting the flap to retrace my steps when a voice cuts through the night.
“Dude.” There’s a dull sound, like that of one boot kicking another. “Are you sleeping?”
With a snort, the sentry awakens.
Heart beating to a frenzy in my throat, I crab-walk backward toward the center of the tent. The rattle of the pills in my pockets pounds in my ears, seeming louder than cannon shots. I sit to give my legs a rest. Still like a stone and bathed in almost utter darkness, I dread even the sound of my breathing will be too loud.
“You’re lucky it was me, dude,” the same voice says. “Smith would’ve taken your scalp.”
“Relax, my man. No one’s here. And I had my boots on the weapons all along, didn’t I? No one is going to sneak past me.”
If the situation wasn’t so tragic, I’d evil-laugh.
“All right, man,” the guy who was sleeping continues. “Your gig now. Run it as you like.”
There’s a scraping noise, and then the shuffling of steps until everything goes quiet again. A new sentry, and I have a feeling this one won’t conveniently fall asleep for me.
What now?
I can’t risk going out the way I snuck in. Not with a freshly awakened, alert soldier out there looking out for trouble. The chances he’d spot me coming out of the tent are too high. I have to find something to cut my way out from the back. Good thing I’m in a supply tent; there must be a tool in here I can use.
A thousand times more careful not to make a sound than before, I grope for the toolbox. When I find it, I unhinge the plastic locks, their soft clicks echoing too loud in my ears, and feel my way through the various tools. I sigh in relief when my fingers slide over a cutter.
Blade in hand, I find a spot of wall clear of supplies and try to steady my hand as I slice a vertical opening in the sturdy fabric. The cutter must be new, because it slices downward as if I were cutting through butter.
Outside, I close the cutter and pocket it. Okay, now the hard part. I move away from the camp until I find a small clearing where a ray of moonlight is filtering through the trees above. The faint light is enough for me to read the pill labels and identify the antibiotics and the paracetamol. Archie was shivering like he was burning up, so paracetamol should help to take his temperature down. And even if he’s not feverish, I bet he could use a little help managing the pain.
I hide the rest of the pill bottles in a patch of grass; I can’t risk getting confused when I have to give them to Archie. Summoning the last dregs of energy and courage I have left, I keep going toward the prisoners’ corner. I’m not far now.
Once there, I stop again, considering. My friends are all asleep, slumped as best as they can against the tree. A pang of worry pulls at my chest as I notice Archie’s head hanging lower than all the others.
This is the tricky part.
How do I get to them without being spotted by the sentry?
The prisoners aren’t directly in the line of view of the sentry, but the soldier must have at least a partial visual on them—and judging from the way they are oriented, on Archie in particular.
Damn!
What do I do?
Tucker is sitting next to Archie, and he should be shielded enough from the soldier’s position. My best bet is to hand the pills to Tucker and have him give them to Archie. Assuming he’s able to do it tied up like that. But first I need to wake him without him making a sound, and thus giving our game away.
I crawl right in front of him and place my palm squarely on his mouth.
Tucker’s eyes fly wide open, but my hand prevents him from crying out.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s me, Winter.”
With my face covered in dirt, I must be unrecognizable and possibly frightening. But Tucker is quicker than I would’ve been in recovering from the shock and gives me a curt nod. So I let my hand drop from his mouth and press a finger to my lips.
Tucker stares at me interrogatively, and I don’t need him to actually ask what’s going on for me to understand the unspoken question.
“We don’t have much time,” I explain. “Logan is looking for your satellite phone to call for help. I brought antibiotics and paracetamol for Archie, and some water. How long have you been stuck here?”
“Since yesterday morning,” Tucker whispers back, his voice hoarse.
“How is he?”
“Not good. It’s been hours since I felt him move, and he’s burning up.”
“Okay, give these to him.” I press the antibiotic pills into his hand. “But careful the guard doesn’t spot you.”
Tucker lifts his tied-up hands to Archie’s mouth and forces the pills in, while I keep to the side and out of sight of the sentry. A low moan escapes our friend’s lips.
“Make him swallow them,” I hiss.
“I can’t lift his head.” Tucker shows me his bound wrists as an explanation. “You’ll have to give him the water.”
Hands shaking with fear of getting caught, I retrieve the canteen from the folds of my shirt, unscrew the top and, keeping as much to the side as I can—I’m basically straddling poor Tucker—I gently lift Archie’s head. When his chin is tilted up at the right angle, I press the bottle to his lips. He’s still unconscious, but some primordial survival instinct must prompt him to drink. Like a baby sucking at the bottle, in a few deep gulps he finishes the water. As soon as I let go, Archie’s chin slumps back to his chest with a slight loll. But at least he’s taken the pills.
Crouching back on the ground, I give Tucker the remaining antibiotics and paracetamol.
“I don’t have any more water. Sorry.”
Tucker nods.
“I have to go now. But hold tight.” I squeeze his knee in an encouraging gesture. “Reinforcements will come soon.”
We exchange another, more meaning-loaded nod, and I scamper away.
I find Logan waiting in our spot, evidently going mad with worry.
“What took you so long?” he demands, the moment I step out of the darkness.
“Sorry, I had a couple of snafus—”
“Shut up,” he interrupts, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug that lets me know how much he’d been worried.
Still hugging, we sink to the ground and lie down to sleep, not bothering to even lay a blanket before sheer exhaustion makes both of us pass out in each other’s arms.