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One
Killing vampires was hell on my hair.
As Eduardo—my Bolivian government liaison and driver—navigated our jeep through the lush South American jungle, I plaited my outrageously frizzy blonde curls into a thick braid.
The jeep bumped and jostled over something that might loosely be defined as a road, and I took in our surroundings.
Eduardo had explained we’d be driving into the Amazon in order to find our target, and like a moron I’d been confused because the Amazon was supposed to be a Brazilian thing, right? Nope. Turns out when a rainforest is as insanely huge as the Amazon, it actually spreads out over several countries.
I couldn’t even blame the American public school system for failing me. I’d been home-schooled. In Canada.
The seat belts in the jeep were broken, so whenever we hit a big divot or branch in the road—about every three seconds—I’d either slam into the passenger door or be tossed against Eduardo. He seemed to be having the time of his life. He was laughing and rattling off fun facts about the jungle.
“If you stay, I will show you the pampas. So much wonderful wildlife.” His English was perfect, and his accent made all the familiar words sound much prettier than I was accustomed to.
“Pampas?”
“Yes. Wetlands. You’ll see capybaras.”
“ROUSs, you mean.”
“Disculpe?”
“Rodents of Unusual Size.”
“Si.” He gave me a look like I was an idiot. Guess he’d never seen The Princess Bride.
I thought it was hilarious.
In the back, my big duffel bag slid from side to side. Eduardo had provided me with a thick black flak jacket when I’d arrived at the El Alto airport. I’d been pretty impressed with my travel conditions up to that point, which of course changed drastically once I got into Eduardo’s car.
The first three hours—from El Alto to Coroico—had been fine, and then we’d hit the jungle. I’d shed the flak jacket within the first hour of our Amazon drive and wrapped it around my bag. The humidity was so overpowering, even in October, that my white linen shirt was soaked through in the exact shape of the vest. It hadn’t dried since.
The AR-15 he’d given me was tucked in by the door—safety on—and my personal Sig P229 was secured in its hip holster.
I normally had no problem traveling while armed, because I usually got to use a private plane. I’d gotten spoiled. Even with government-issued ID and a permit, I had to bring the gun in a lockbox that got checked with the rest of the luggage. So much for my clever plan to only take a carry-on and a gun.
What would they have done if I’d tried to bring a sword?
“You like the Yankees?” he asked casually as I was thrown back into the passenger door. He pronounced it Yahn-kees.
“Huh?” I rubbed my sore shoulder and righted myself. Sweat dribbled down my back, and I swatted away an enormous mosquito that had a vampiric thirst for my blood.
“Your hat.” He jerked his chin at the ball cap on my head that I’d forgotten I was wearing.
“Oh. Not really. My husband does.”
Husband.
It had been three years since our wedding but I still loved the way that word sounded, loved the way it tasted on my tongue. Like limes.
Like Desmond.
I smiled to myself, and then remembered he was the reason I hadn’t been able to use the jet and furrowed my brow. What a jerk. Worst husband ever.
The light overhead that had been so bright and yellow when we left Coroico had turned dark gray, and somewhere a little ways off I could hear the distinct rumble of thunder. The humidity was so bad at this point I’d welcome the rain. The sound was a buzzing lullaby of bird, frogs, and insects that got louder the farther into the forest we went. It was like having one of those white noise “Sounds of the Rainforest” albums, but turned up to AC/DC-level volumes.
I fanned the front of my shirt, hoping to get some reprieve from the sweltering, oppressive heat.
