14. Calista
Chapter 14
Calista
“ Y ou fucking asshole, you drugged me.”
Smith’s dark head is bent over my computer, a frown on his face. It pisses me off that the amount of attention he gives me is about the same as he’d give a vaguely annoying fly.
Only a sliver of light peeks in through the window. A cool breeze whispers over my heated skin.
It’s a clear night.
But not inside me.
I’m a furnace of barely controlled hot anger.
“I asked you something.”
“No,” he says, “you made a statement. There’s a difference.”
Those words drive home the one fact I let slip away during this trip from France.
It doesn’t matter if he’s nice or cruel. It doesn’t matter if he saves me or holds a gun to my head.
There’s a reason I keep looking for outs and ways to escape, and it isn’t what waits for me at the end of this fucked-up road trip.
We’re enemies.
He’s my enemy.
No matter how amenable he can be, I’ve seen him turn on the proverbial dime into darkness, savageness. Violence. And yeah, he’s made no secret of what’s going to happen to me when we get back to the States. My captors will probably meet him at Dulles or Reagan National Airport for the handoff. Or, considering this is the mysterious Smith, some small governmental airfield where the CIA will be waiting with guns.
We’re at the opposite ends of things.
Only he’s dragging this whole thing out, hopping between countries without giving me any reasons why.
There’s one fact, though.
We’re enemies.
Him and me.
There’s no denying that.
I put a hand in the pocket of the skirt, and it touches the smooth, now-warm steel blade I stole from the kitchen.
An ugly thought nips at my brain.
He’s asked mostly about the Collectors when he’s questioned me.
Not my CIA agent.
Not what I know about the weapon, which isn’t much, and what I do know is disjointed.
Yet he claims the weapon and whatever I might know is the story behind why I’m being escorted back.
Story. My mind snags on that.
He’s not CIA or government now. He lies when telling the truth. It’s a gift. A dark one. And he does that to me. I keep asking and he keeps giving me the truth wrapped in nothing. My “who are you” questions are met with generic answers .
Meanwhile, there’s someone who doesn’t want me to put whatever they think I have in the right hands. Whatever that is.
I need to get away.
With a slow look around, my stomach drops. There’s no way I’ll get to the four-by-four outside. But I’m not waiting for whatever he’s waiting for.
“Put my computer away, there’s nothing on there.”
To my surprise, he does just that. Closes the lid and slides it into the backpack.
“You’re wrong, Calista. There’s a lot on there.” He links his fingers over his abs and meets my gaze, taking me in like he can see inside my soul. “I’m still deciding if it’s of interest.”
“I thought you were just paid to deliver me. You said you don’t care about anything more.”
“True, but I’m a curious kind of guy.” Then he sighs. “Sit down or go back to bed.”
“I’m not tired.” I try not to search out a path of escape with my gaze. I’m thinking the tangle of jungle is my best bet. All through this region, according to Sofia and her chatter, are farms, little towns, and communities. The bigger city, as she calls it, is closer to the water, and I know which direction that’s in. But I don’t want to race down random roads where Smith can track me.
The jungle offers more hiding places.
And then what?
I don’t have a passport.
Ways and means always exist, and while I don’t know anyone in the region, I can do it.
Running and doing things my way seems better than waiting for a man who’d sell me on the black market if I was able to command a good price.
“Go to fucking bed. We’ve got an early start tomorrow. ”
“Why were you on my computer?”
His grin is dark and humorless, and it sends shivers of need through me. I know I’m fucked up, because that smile shouldn’t turn me on. It’s a smile that tells me he’ll devour me and leave nothing in his wake, not even my bones.
“A hunter likes to know what makes the prey tick.”
“You’re a shitbag.” I glare.
“I’ve been called worse.”
He stands and walks silently over to me, the air around me quivering with his presence. It pulls at my nerve endings.
Smith looks down at me. His overall effect should be somehow diminished now that he’s out of the suit that probably cost a fortune—probably Tom Ford or some designer I’ve never heard of—but he isn’t.
The cargo pants and boots and shirt are a dime a dozen; any good surplus store has them.
But on him, he looks like an elite hunter. The pagan god who’ll hunt you down, play with you, and then sacrifice you to himself on an altar of stone.
No matter what he wears, he’s deadly.
And he turns me on in every way a man shouldn’t.
“Go to fucking sleep.”
I swallow. “Actually, I think I will.”
And I know I’m going to run.
Lying in the lumpy, hard, narrow bed is torture. But I’m biding my time.
Before, he knocked me out and I didn’t even notice the discomfort. Now… sober, drug-free, and plotting his destruction—or at least my way out—it’s pure misery .
But the mission’s quiet. Just the hoots and growls and rustles from the nightlife of the jungle.
Smith’s gone to bed, and I bet he took the backpack with him. And somewhere in the last hour, I’ve decided it’s worth the risk of trying to get it. After all, I’m betting my passport, the fake one, is inside.
I get up, carrying my shoes and putting them outside so I can make a quick escape. The moonlight cuts a river of silver on the windows of the vehicle, like it’s calling to me to run. But I force myself to go back inside and get the backpack.
If he finds me with it, I’ll say I wanted to look at the photos… He can’t deny a girl that.
Then again, it’s Smith, and what little I’ve learned from him is yes, he can do that and would. He’s into payment for actions, and this is a doozy if I’m caught and don’t get away with the excuse I come up with.
The old, simple place is quiet, the floor made of worn cement or stone. It makes me wonder why. And what lies beneath it.
In countries like this, hidden tunnel systems aren’t unheard of. Drugs, people, all kinds of things are kept in the earth. Secrets. Things to be smuggled. Places to hide.
But I’m not here for that, and in the dark, I don’t see any entrances to anything below. Maybe there’s a cellar. Or maybe it’s just whatever material was chosen.
I take a breath to settle my nerves, my scattered thoughts. The fear that hammers in my veins.
What if he’s lying in one of those narrow, lumpy beds, waiting?
Worse, waiting outside? Or in a room?
I push open the door to another room past the living area, something that might have once been used for prayer or meals. Light floods in from the moonlit night beyond, and there’s Smith.
Sprawled on the bed.
Boots still on. He’s still dressed, and I throb at the sight of him.
A man should look small, vulnerable when passed out.
Smith doesn’t.
He’s big, strong, and he looks asleep.
The fucker drugged me, enough to knock me out for a few hours, and that fact disturbs me more than it should. I’m not sure why.
Like he didn’t want me out for too long, so why is…?
I stop myself from completing the thought.
Does it even matter?
One hand dangles off the edge of the bed, and it rests right over the backpack.
I hold my breath and ease it out from under him, stopping every time it makes the slightest of sounds.
But I finally get it free, letting out a silent but relieved breath. I back out of the room, eyes on him, as I clutch the pack to my chest.
The urge to run beats in time with my heart, but I don’t. Instead, I slip carefully back through the mission and out the front door, where I sit, shaking. Waiting.
If he gets up and I’m sitting out here, I’ve got a chance through it. A chance not to face his brand of retribution. I’ve tasted some, but not the dark stuff he claims he’s partial to.
And very willing to unleash, if I give him a reason.
Smith is my enemy.
I silently repeat that mantra.
I still don’t hear him, so I check the pack. Buried at the bottom are the passports, clothes, and a dead burner phone. I’m about to close it up and get out of here when something crinkles. Paper.
Shaking, I reach into the front pocket and pull out a folded, old-fashioned map.
I really don’t have time, but I can’t afford not to look. I open it and my heart leaps. Belize. And I trace a path through the edge of the jungle and down to where the city is. It’ll take a day, maybe two. Unless I can steal a vehicle.
I pull on my boots and tuck the map away. Then I walk slowly and carefully to the edge of the jungle. Once I step into the darkness where the pools of moonlight are splattered like paint, I wait.
Nothing.
No one.
But it’s like eyes are on me, watching.
And they probably are. The jungle’s full of creatures that thrive in the night. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling it’s more than that. I’m being hunted.
I pick up my pace, move faster, carefully, trying to stick to the shadows as I move deeper inside. There are paths all through here indicating that people do use the jungle. This place isn’t wild and impenetrable, so I keep to the shadows as much as I can, trying to keep noise to a minimum.
Something crunches to my right and my heart squeezes hard, sending a shot of white-hot adrenaline through me. Like electricity, it lights up all my nerve endings.
A whisper taunts me, and I don’t know if it’s in my head or real.
But the sentiment is.
Run.
I do.
I dart through the jungle, heading in the direction of where the city will eventually be. My lungs burn as vines and branches slap at me, scraping at my legs. I stumble over thick roots in my haste.
A bird loudly calls out and I almost scream.
The ground’s soft beneath my feet and it starts to clear, the last thing I want or need.
Frantically, I glance around and veer right, then left and dart behind a tree.
Pressing my lips together, I try and stop the harshness of my breathing, the desperate need for lungsful of air. I want that soothing balm over the burn, but I make myself take shallow, silent breaths.
I wrap my fingers around the knife in my pocket, pulling it free. My palm’s slick with sweat, but I just tighten my grip on the handle, too scared to rub my hand dry.
Is someone out there? I close my eyes and strain to hear, see if I can pick out footsteps over the natural breaths and sounds of the jungle.
But there’s nothing.
Crap, maybe I imagined the word “run.” Maybe I conjured up the thought that someone’s following me.
Surely Smith would’ve grabbed me back at the mission if he wanted to come after me. If he was awake.
And then, all of a sudden… everything turns cold.
The men with the rifles.
They had them for a reason.
Farmers don’t carry weapons like that, and when Sofia and Rodriguez left earlier, I noticed that the chickens were locked in a coop and the goat left with the family. The men who stayed behind didn’t dress like farmers. They didn’t move like militia or men smuggling drugs. They were like men ready for something. Or someone. But who were they on the lookout for?
Shit .
Smith might be the least of all the evils out here.
He—
A hand slams over my mouth to stifle the scream and my eyes shoot open.
Oh. My. God.
Him.