Contingency Plan
Triumph
Getting to an airport and going back home by plane was already determined to be a no-go.
Tripoli came through with a military contact who now lived in Colombia.
Using satellite footage, he was able to tell them that Guillermo had men at all the commercial and private airports watching for them, and he also had drone footage that showed the illegal runways used by his drug traffickers were also being kept under observation.
They were going to have to come up with an alternative exit out of South America.
While the airways would have been easier to use, all the cartel’s men watching the skies meant the roads were relatively clear of everything except police.
Those police were in Guillermo’s pocket, but with some help from Midas and Triumph manning their keyboards, fake calls helped distract some of the force when Steel was about to bring the truck into the affected areas.
Once able to get down the highway a bit, Steel turned the truck back into the mountains. He was headed to a small, no-name village where they would collect supplies before journeying north.
Triumph was thrilled to be back on dirt track roads, where police didn’t patrol, although they still ran the risk of encountering civilians indebted to the cartel.
In the end, the danger level was probably a wash.
He marveled at the two deadmen. No matter what, they took everything in stride.
Even when they swore, it was more of a “here we go again” tone instead of escalated emotion.
Triumph thought he hid his concerns well.
He didn’t want to make things worse or frustrate the two men by questioning their every move.
Nor did he think he was qualified to offer opinions.
But they did ask him for assistance on technical things, which helped him not to think as obsessively about the stakes they faced, and it made him feel useful.
Still, he would be lying if he didn’t admit to being worried. About being followed. About what Guillermo might do next. About what would happen if they got caught, because that was a very real possibility. No one was infallible. Not even these two guys, who seemed in control at all times.
The immediate concern was how incredibly uncomfortable the drive was.
However, they had to get out of the path of Guillermo’s reach.
As uncomfortable as the drive was for him and the other two men, who were far more used to this type of transportation, he was more worried about Glennon.
Being shot was bad enough, but the constant jostling over the uneven roads up into the mountains wasn’t allowing her wound to seal properly, and it continued to ooze blood.
He also worried about Glennon healing, emotionally and mentally.
He hated feeling helpless. When that feeling crossed his personal radar, he couldn’t help but think of Tilly.
Jesus Christ, what a mess. She’d been just a kid.
Barely twenty-one, with her whole life ahead of her.
Collateral to one psychopath, they’d all tried so hard to help her, but nothing had been successful.
The night terrors about being buried alive had lessened.
The panic attacks brought on by sensory stimuli had all but stopped.
She had still lived with agoraphobia, but when she had Tripoli, Cosmos, or him close by, checking in with her every thirty minutes, she could handle working at the club at least. And she said she really liked her therapist.
They thought they were helping. They thought she was getting better.
But they’d missed the signs. She still had nightmares and panic attacks, but she hid them.
She struggled if one of the men wasn’t in her line of sight, but she hid her fear, not wanting to be a burden.
She’d stopped going to counseling, and they’d never known. Not until it was too late.
Their hubris blinded them to the fact that her trauma was too great, and they all felt extreme guilt for missing the signs that she wasn’t getting better. That day by day, she was vanishing before their very eyes. They hadn’t paid close enough attention, and the cost was her life.
Triumph had never felt so helpless before in his life, and he never wanted to be responsible for another person’s trauma again.
Yet here he was, beginning to feel those same tendrils of unease about Glennon’s recovery. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she survive? According to her, she had no one. She didn’t even have an employer to stabilize her life.
Part of him wanted to instantly step in and make everything better for her. He had room in his apartment. He could help her land back on her feet with whatever she wanted to do. He could take care of her.
But wasn’t that just repeating the same mistakes he made with Tilly? Was he doomed to repeat history and let another woman slip through the cracks into nothingness?
No. He couldn’t do it.
He shouldn’t do it.
He pushed those urges down—pack, pack, pack.
He wasn’t qualified to help her that way.
He’d focus on what he could do. Help her get home.
Do what he could to ease the physical rigors of the trip.
Glennon wasn’t Tilly. Glennon was a grown woman with years of experience behind her.
She was tough. Smart. She’d be just fine.
When they got home, she’d likely thank him and head off to live a quiet life, reinvent herself, and work toward forgetting the past decade.
Yeah. That was a realistic fantasy. Not.
He spent the next two hours fretting back and forth over whether he would or wouldn't do what he knew he should do versus what he shouldn’t.
But who the fuck was he kidding? He was invested, whether he thought it was a good idea or not. He knew for a fact he would be all up in her business, probably to the point where she’d wish she’d never even thought of his name, let alone called him, and he’d be right back where he started.
When they stopped briefly to check on her, he watched Demon’s face.
The man was stone-cold, but Triumph didn’t have to be a medic to know the man was concerned.
The cooler air in the mountains helped some, but the warmer air at ground level was a haven for bacteria.
A wound that wouldn’t seal was begging to become infected.
“Steel, we need to stop for a while,” the medic advised. “We’ve got to get this wound to close properly. She keeps popping stitches from all the bouncing around. At this rate, it’s a toss-up whether infection or blood loss will be the end of her.”
“I need a better vantage point. Give me ten.”
If Triumph hadn’t been watching Steel, he would have sworn he had powers of invisibility.
One second, he was there. The next, he was gone.
All he’d really done was confirm the direction he was facing, then strode into the trees as if he were walking down a sidewalk, and then he was no more. That’s how thick the vegetation was.
Demon hopped out of the truck bed, went to the passenger side, and came back with his backpack. After rustling around in it, he brought out a thin towel, a lighter, several airplane bottles of whiskey, a needle, and some silk thread. He looked up at Triumph. “You still have that gun?”
“Yes.”
“I need to repair some of these stitches. Keep an eye out. More importantly, listen carefully. If all natural noises stop, something bad’s about to happen.”
“Got it.”
Warring with himself, he wanted to keep his eyes on what the medic was doing to Glennon, but he also knew the importance of keeping his eyes and ears open. If they were caught by surprise, supervising Demon’s handiwork wouldn’t mean jack shit.
Taking a calming breath in and a slow breath out, he centered himself.
Watching the trees, he worked to dispassionately focus on what he could hear.
The breaking of the seal on the whiskey bottles.
The sound of the liquid glugging out as Demon rinsed his hands with one, then poured the second on her wound.
The sound of a lighter being flicked as he sterilized the needle.
The soft words in Irish—an apology, perhaps, to Glennon for the pain he was about to inflict with the stitching.
Her whimper each time the needle pierced her skin, even in her unconscious state.
When the man finished, he broke open another of the small bottles and poured it over the wound. Quietly, he said, “I need to give her an injection of antibiotics. I don’t suppose you know if she’s allergic to anything?”
“I don’t remember anything in her legend about medicine issues.”
“Well, I guess we’re going to find out.”
He pulled a medical bottle and a syringe kit out of his bag. “I need you to sterilize a spot on her upper arm. There should be another whiskey bottle in there.”
Triumph dug in the bag. The man was a veritable pharmacy. Bottles of unmarked pills. Needles in sterilized pouches. Liquid medicines. Bandages of all kinds. Gloves. Cannulas. Instruments like scalpels and forceps.
And then there was the shit that didn’t seem to be medical, but somehow, he knew they were.
Ballpoint pens. Heavy-duty markers. Clothespins.
Twine. Rubber tubing. Water bottles. Airplane alcohol bottles.
Plastic freezer bags. Tampons. Condoms. A couple of adult diapers.
A dental mirror. Several playing cards. Not the whole deck, just about a half dozen.
The man even had a collapsible funnel, for fuck’s sake. Triumph did not want to know what that was for.
And that didn’t even compare to the several large, wicked-looking knives the man had in various pockets.
What he didn’t see were any personal items. Extra clothing? Toiletries? Even Triumph had packed extra underwear, socks, another T-shirt, deodorant, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. He wasn’t a complete savage.