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“Hello, this is a distress call from Dr. Logan Spencer…”
* * *
Winter
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 photoshoots? No, I had to seek adventure…
Aha!
I’ve had enough adventure 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 that 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 in 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.
