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How is she here? How is this possible?
The red light of a tracker winks from her boot, answering that question. Obvious, really. It’s the agency, trying to entice me back in—dangling her like bait on a string. Should’ve known they’d see my interest in her, even as I tried to hide it.
Anger and hurt burn through my chest, but I keep silent, moving through the shadows. Why would Betty help them? Did they offer her money?
Doesn’t she care that I don’t want to be found? Can’t she respect that?
As I watch, Betty brushes too close to the trees and a hairy spider drops onto her shoulder. It’s stark against her pale top and tanned skin.
“Assholes,” she mutters, marching up the rocky slope, oblivious to her fist-sized hitchhiker. The spider lifts one leg, then another, and I keep parallel in the shadows, weighing my options.
That species is not venomous. Or not life-threatening, anyway. A bite might leave the barista with a swollen neck, but she won’tdie.I shouldn’t interfere.
Because maybe this is the agency’s plan—to put Betty in lethal situations over and over, until I snap and reveal myself like a sentimental fool.
I won’t do it. Betty doesn’t want a spider bite? She shouldn’t have played this game. Should have stayed the hell away from me—here, and in that coffee shop.
She has no idea what kind of man she’s toying with.
“Agent Dawes,” the barista calls, her words sing-songing through the trees, “where are you? Come out, come out.”
And I’d think she was mocking me, except her ear piece buzzes like a hornet as someone from the agency yells at her, probably telling her not to scare me off. Betty winces, rolling her eyes at her boots. Lines of sweat run down her temples.
She’s… warning me. Huh.
And she still has a spider on her shoulder.
Glancing around, I pluck a flower from the foliage: white with a pink blush spreading through the petals. I’m out in the open for a single breath, feet silent, the breeze warm against my cheeks, then I blend back into the darkness again, tossing the annoyed spider behind me.
Betty lifts a hand to smooth her hair. Her fingertips brush the flower tucked behind her ear, and she jumps like she’s been electrified. She snatches the flower down and stares into the jungle.
“Miss Hale,”a tinny voice says, just on the edge of my hearing.“Why have you stopped moving? Do you see Agent Dawes?”
Cornflower blue eyes rove between the trees, and I melt back further into the shadows. A monkey screams high above, and leaves rustle. Shouldn’t have risked it, shouldn’t have moved, but Betty’s gaze sweeps right past me, and I sag, both disappointed and relieved.
“N-no,” she says.
No mention of the flower… so maybe she’s not in the agency’s pocket after all. Before she turns away, she smooths the crumpled petals, then tucks it carefully back behind her ear.
I watch her carry on up the slope, my chest burning.
* * *
I track Betty back to base camp, staying hidden the whole time. It’s not hard—she’s too busy watching her steps to be observant, trying not to trip over roots or get tangled in a vine, and who can blame her? I’ve brushed two more spiders, a glossy beetle, and a large caterpillar off her before she reaches the camp. Betty’s a magnet for jungle critters—me included.
The canvas tents are clustered between the jungle and the beach, partly hidden by two rocky columns. I count five men in all—one with a headset, sitting at a table of electronics, and one in the kitchen space, chopping onions with a scowl. The other three lounge around the campfire in fold-out chairs, swigging beers as the pink sky darkens. I don’t recognize their faces.
Mercenaries, then? The agency does like using temps for the dirty work. And dragging me back in is the definition ofdirty.
“There she is,” one man by the fire calls, grinning at Betty in a flash of white teeth. The pale line of a scar cuts through his beard. She approaches the camp with stiff shoulders, ignoring everyone and making a beeline for a ramshackle tent on the outskirts. “Nice flower, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
I’ll stuff a melon down his throat.
Hers is the smallest, shabbiest tent, patched and leaning to one side where the rocky dirt turns to sand. Of course they stuck Betty in that tent when she needs the most protection. If it rains, she’ll get soaked. Pricks.
See, this is why I’m done with the agency. Back in the day, I could stomach a few gung ho idiots, one or two assholes on each mission. We were doing important work, after all. Taking down global criminals and keeping people safe.
