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He reaches for the gun at his belt, but Winter is quicker, and sends a bullet flying an inch from Smith’s foot. Dirt explodes in a circular bubble near his toes, and Smith backs his hand away from his gun.
Eyes fixed on the rifle sight, she says, “Try a move like that again, and the next bullet goes in your kneecap.”
Again, I don’t know if I should be turned on or frightened to death.
“Oi, Barbie can shoot.” The soldier chuckles mockingly. “The world is full of surprises. I confess I hadn’t hoped to see you again so soon, Miss Knowles.”
“What can I say,” Winter quips right back. “I was missing you too much. Now, would you be so kind as to remove that gun from your belt, and the one at your ankle. The knives, too. Go slowly, and not another funny move.”
Some sort of unspoken sniper secret code must run between them, because to my utter surprise, Smith does exactly as he’s told. He must have finally decided Winter is a threat.
Once the colonel has removed all the weapons from his person, Winter instructs him to kick them our way. He does, and I quickly collect them, still eyeing my companion skeptically.
“How come you’re such a good shot?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker to me for a fraction of a second, and she smirks. “My mom’s from Indiana, originally.” She refocuses on Smith. “She was born and raised on a ranch, and we went to visit our grandparents every summer. Pops taught us how to shoot before we could walk.”
I swallow. “Remind me to never make you angry again.”
“Oh, I will.” She gives me that sweet, bone-chilling smile of hers, and then her face loses all humor. “Logan,” Winter says, her voice hard as steel. “We need to find a wire or something we can tie him with. I can’t keep him at gunpoint forever.”
I check the supplies Somchai left us and come back with two lengths of rope.
“Throw one at him,” Winter instructs.
I frown. “Why?”
“So he can tie his own feet.”
“I can do it,” I offer.
“No, you can’t,” Winter says. “He could grab you in a hundred different ways the second he gets his hands on you and threaten to choke you or snap your neck. Our government paid top dollars to transform him into a living killing machine. We’re both staying well away from him until he’s incapacitated.”
Smith’s responding sneer is evil. “Other than being a good shot, you’re smarter than I thought,” he says, something close to admiration audible in his voice.
I throw him the rope, and Smith obediently ties his feet together. I’ll make sure to check that the knots are tight once his hands are bound.
Winter gives him her next order. “Now tie the other rope around your wrist, bring your hands to your back, and loop the rope inside your belt twice. Then turn around—as always, slowly.”
Smith does, and when he has one hand securely restrained behind him, Winter says, “Logan, time to finish the job.”
I tie his other hand, then lift the colonel bodily, drag him to a nearby tree, and use the rope to secure him to the trunk.
Once Smith is restrained, and I’ve double-checked the knots, Winter lowers the rifle, letting her shoulders relax.
“What’s next, G.I. Jane?” I ask. “Should we wait for the rest of the group?”
“No, we make a run for it.”
“Why? We have him. There’s no more danger of—”
“Carter or Montgomery will arrive soon. They might just blunder in and get the jump on us, or they might scout ahead, see Smith tied up, and ambush us. Too many things could go wrong. We need to get lost, find civilization, and call for help.”
“You expect me to leave him here? With all the gold? So he and his cronies can steal it?”
“I don’t care about the stupid treasure; I just want to make it out of the jungle alive. We have to find help.”
“And what of the others? We need to warn them.”
