Last Spy Standing. Dana Marton

aim. She scanned the trees and moved toward one that seemed to have potential, all while trying not to think of Mitch—and failing.

      “Where are you taking me?” Zak called after her. Dirty and exhausted, he sounded a lot more subdued than when he’d screamed choice obscenities at her earlier.

      She ignored that question as she got working on the bay leaf palms locals used for thatching to keep the rain out of their huts. “We need a roof to keep us dry overnight.”

      “Why does it rain so much here?” he whined, pulling his shirt away from his neck where the wet clothing had rubbed the skin raw.

      She had some salve that would work on that.

      “Because it’s a rain forest.” She kept Zak in sight as she worked. When she dragged the palm fronds back, she helped him finish the beds—he hadn’t gotten far—then put the roof on, thatching it as best she could. The sky was already darkening by the time she finished. They had only minutes to start a fire.

      She grabbed a dry cotton sock from her backpack and used that as kindling, wondering how far Mitch was behind them. Far enough, hopefully. She hadn’t seen another vehicle at the village.

      Getting a fire going in a place that dripped with moisture was quite the trick, but the burning sock dried the bamboo shavings she piled on, and then that caught fire at last. Just in time. The jungle around them was already black. Because of the tall trees, night here was a sudden thing. You’d better hope you were ready for it.

      “Here, put this on your neck.” She tossed the small jar of salve to the kid, then tied his left foot to the platform with some vines and one quick hook.

      “You can’t do that to me!” He yanked his bonds, his face turning red with outrage. “What if some wild animal attacks us? How do I escape?”

      She put more wood on the fire then climbed onto her side of the platform, stashing the guns so they were at hand for her but out of reach for the kid. “If any trouble comes our way, I’ll take care of it.”

      He swore viciously, but did it under his breath this time. And he didn’t try to attack her, mindful of her weapons. Good. He wasn’t an all-around idiot then. He seemed to have the ability to learn.

      “Where are you taking me?” he asked again.

      “Back to the camp.”

      “I have money—my father has money—”

      She needed sleep. “No.” However much drug money the kid and his family had, there weren’t enough greenbacks in the world to tempt her. Something a lot more important was at stake.

      Zak fell into sullen silence. Bugs began their night serenade. A macaw cried somewhere above them in the canopy.

      She closed her eyes, ignoring her growling stomach. In the morning, as soon as there was sufficient light, she would find something to eat.

      Her dreams were jumbled, and mostly involved Mitch. In some of the dreams, he was naked in her bed. In others, he was trying to kill her.

      She woke in the dead of the night to a noise that didn’t fit in with the rest of the sounds of the jungle. Or had she dreamed it? She listened carefully. No. Even the insect chorus was off. Something was disturbing their nightly routine.

      Their fire had burned down to embers, providing little visibility. She reached for her weapon as quietly as possible and waited.

      She was awake but she hadn’t seen him yet. Mitch crouched in the cover of some bamboo. The smartest thing would be to shoot her right now, but he wanted to know who she was and who she worked for. She intrigued him, he couldn’t deny that. It kept her alive. For now.

      “Drop both guns to the ground,” he told her without showing himself.

      After a moment of hesitation, she did, then slipped from her shelter, searching the darkness in the direction of his voice. “How did you find us?”

      He’d followed the logging road on the polizia man’s motorbike, then tracked their trail through the jungle. “I could smell the smoke of your fire from miles away.”

      “I didn’t think you’d be so close behind,” she admitted, then pulled a machete from behind her back and came at him.

      How in hell did she see him?

      The first blow almost took off his nose. He dropped the old pistol he’d bought in the village, knowing he wasn’t going to use it, not yet, not until he had some answers. And for that, he needed both hands to restrain her.

      He grabbed her wrist and held the machete away from them. She launched herself at him again, and they ended up grappling on the ground in short order, which was a really bad idea, considering all the poisonous bugs and snakes. The sooner he got her under control the better.

      “Quit it,” he snapped at her.

      She ignored him.

      He kicked the embers as they rolled, and the flames livened up, giving them both a little more light. He could see Zak from the corner of his eye, working madly on the restraint on his leg.

      “You stay where you are,” he growled at the kid. The last thing he needed was for the idiot to pick up one of the discarded guns and shoot him by accident.

      That small diversion—his attention on Zak for a split second—was enough for her to make her move. She flawlessly executed a flip he remembered from special ops training. Interesting. And where would she have learned that?

      He responded with a move a martial arts fanatic taught him while he’d spent two years deep undercover in Thailand. That made her eyes go wide and got him control of the machete at last.

      He tossed the weapon aside and pinned her to the ground, embarrassed to be breathing so hard. Her firm breasts pressed into his chest. That image of her at the guesthouse, wearing nothing but a towel, popped into his mind. He batted it away. “Where did you get your training?”

      “Where did you get yours?” She strained against him, taxing his focus.

       “Who do you work for?” Don’t think lean pink thighs.

      “Same guy everyone works for around here.” She grunted with frustration as she tried to heave him off, undaunted by the sixty or so pounds he had on her.

      He kept her firmly in place, ignoring the interesting ways her body moved under his. At another time, in another place … Focus. “Not me.”

      “Let me guess, you’re Cristobal’s.”

      Cristobal was a rival drug lord, controlling vast territories north of the river. He had the reputation of being a ruthless bastard who didn’t hesitate to burn whole villages if someone crossed him.

      “Guess again.” He transferred both of her wrists to one hand, then reached out with the other and grabbed his gun from the ground, feeling much better with a weapon handy.

      She stared at the barrel and turned all soft under him, her large eyes filling with tears. “Juarez is going to kill me if I don’t bring the kid back. You don’t know my situation. You have to help me. Please.”

      He went slack like an idiot at the sight of her tears. She immediately shoved her knee where sharp knees had no business going. Her elbow slammed into his chin, and before he could begin to breathe again, she was out from under him and running into the jungle, taking a split second to sweep down and pick up her own weapon.

      What was wrong with him? He was the most cynical man he knew. He could usually smell a trap or a scam from a mile away. But something about her kept sneaking under his defenses.

      He rolled to his feet and tore after her, limping, determined not to make the same mistake again. They were both playing with their lives like this, dammit. He couldn’t see her in the darkness—the thick canopy above didn’t let through much moonlight. He fired a warning shot in the general direction where he could hear her moving.