grab. She gave him a tired smile of thanks, but when she tried to step away from him he held her. He stood rigid and it frightened her. She jerked around to look at him, but his face was a cold, blank mask, and he was staring behind her. She whirled again, and looked down the barrel of a rifle.
The sweat congealed on her body. For one moment of frozen terror she expected to be shot; then the moment passed and she was still alive. She was able then to look past the barrel to the hard, dark face of the soldier who held the rifle. His black eyes were narrowed, fastened on Sullivan. He said something, but Jane was too upset to translate the Spanish.
Slowly, deliberately, Sullivan released Jane and raised his arms, clasping his hands on top of his head. “Step away from me,” he said quietly.
The soldier barked an order at him. Jane’s eyes widened. If she moved an inch this maniac would probably shoot her down. But Sullivan had told her to move, so she moved, her face so white that the small freckles across her nose stood out as bright dots of color. The rifle barrel jerked in her direction, and the soldier said something else. He was nervous, Jane suddenly realized. The tension was obvious in his voice, in his jerky movements. God, if his finger twitched on the trigger…! Then, just as abruptly, he aimed the rifle at Sullivan again.
Sullivan was going to do something. She could sense it. The fool! He’d get himself killed if he tried to jump this guy! She stared at the soldier’s shaking hands on the rifle, and suddenly something jumped into her consciousness. He didn’t have the rifle on automatic. It took her another moment to realize the implications; then she reacted without thought. Her body, trained to dance, trained in the graceful moves of self-defense, went into fluid motion. He began moving a split second later, swinging the weapon around, but by then she was close enough that her left foot sliced upward under the barrel of the gun, and the shot that he fired went into the canopy over their heads. He never got a chance at another shot.
Grant was on him then, grabbing the gun with one hand and slashing at the man’s unprotected neck with the side of the other. The soldier’s eyes glazed over, and he sank limply to the ground, his breathing raspy but steady.
Grant grabbed Jane’s arm. “Run! That shot will bring every one of them swarming down on us!”
The urgency of his tone made it possible for her to obey, though she was rapidly depleting her reserves of energy. Her legs were leaden, and her boots weighed fifty pounds each. Burning agony slashed her thighs, but she forced herself to ignore it; sore muscles weren’t nearly as permanent as being dead. Urged on by his hand at her back, she stumbled over roots and through bushes, adding to her collection of scratches. It was purely a natural defense mechanism, but her mind shut down and her body operated automatically, her feet moving, her lungs sucking desperately at the heavy, moist air. She was so tired now that she no longer felt the pain in her body.
The ground abruptly sloped out from under her feet. Her senses dulled by both terror and fatigue, she was unable to regain her balance. Grant grabbed for her, but the momentum of her body carried them both over the edge of the hill. His arms wrapped around her, and they rolled down the steep slope. The earth and trees spun crazily, but she saw a rocky, shallow stream at the bottom of the slope and a small, hoarse cry tore from her throat. Some of those rocks were big enough to kill them and the smaller ones could cut them to pieces.
Grant swore, and tightened his grip on her until she thought her ribs would splinter under the pressure. She felt his muscles tighten, felt the desperate twist he made, and somehow he managed to get his feet and legs in front of him. Then they were sliding down in a fairly upright position, rather than rolling. He dug his heels in and their descent slowed, then stopped. “Pris?” he asked roughly, cupping her chin in his hand and turning her face so he could see it. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no,” she quickly assured him, ignoring the new aches in her body. Her right arm wasn’t broken, but it was badly bruised; she winced as she tried to move it. One of the straps on the backpack had broken, and the pack was hanging lopsidedly off her left shoulder. Her cap was missing.
He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, and Jane wondered how he had managed to hold on to it. Didn’t he ever drop anything, or get lost, or tired, or hungry? She hadn’t even seen him take a drink of water!
“My cap came off,” she said, turning to stare up the slope. The top was almost thirty yards above them and the slope steep enough that it was a miracle they hadn’t crashed into the rocks at the streambed.
“I see it.” He swarmed up the slope, lithe and surefooted. He snatched the cap from a broken branch and in only a moment was back beside her. Jamming the cap on her head, he said, “Can you make it up the other side?”
There was no way, she thought. Her body refused to function any longer. She looked at him and lifted her chin. “Of course.”
He didn’t smile, but there was a faint softening of his expression, as if he knew how desperately tired she was. “We have to keep moving,” he said, taking her arm and urging her across the stream. She didn’t care that her boots were getting wet; she just sloshed through the water, moving downstream while he scanned the bank for an easy place to climb up. On this side of the stream, the bank wasn’t sloped; it was almost vertical and covered with what looked like an impenetrable tangle of vines and bushes. The stream created a break in the foliage that allowed more sunlight to pour down, letting the plants grow much more thickly.
“Okay, let’s go up this way,” he finally said, pointing. Jane lifted her head and stared at the bank, but she didn’t see any break in the wild tangle.
“Let’s talk about this,” she hedged.
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, Pris, I know you’re tired, but—”
Something snapped inside Jane, and she whirled on him, catching him by the shirt front and drawing back her fist. “If you call me ‘Pris’ just one more time, I’m going to feed you a knuckle sandwich!” she roared, unreasonably angry at his continued use of that hated name. No one, but no one, had ever been allowed to call her Priscilla, Pris, or even Cilla, more than once. This damned commando had been rubbing her face in it from the beginning. She’d kept quiet about it, figuring she owed him for kicking him in the groin, but she was tired and hungry and scared and enough was enough!
He moved so quickly that she didn’t even have time to blink. His hand snaked out and caught her drawn-back fist, while the fingers of his other hand laced around her wrist, removing her grip from his shirt. “Damn it, can’t you keep quiet? I didn’t name you Priscilla, your parents did, so if you don’t like it take it up with them. But until then, climb!”
Jane climbed, even though she was certain at every moment that she was going to collapse on her face. Grabbing vines for handholds, using roots and rocks and bushes and small trees, she squirmed and wiggled her way through the foliage. It was so thick that it could have been swarming with jaguars and she wouldn’t have been able to see one until she stuck her hand in its mouth. She remembered that jaguars liked water, spending most of their time resting comfortably near a river or stream, and she swore vengeance on Grant Sullivan for making her do this.
Finally she scrambled over the top, and after pushing forward several yards found that the foliage had once again thinned, and walking was much easier. She adjusted the pack on her back, wincing as she found new bruises. “Are we heading for the helicopter?”
“No,” he said curtly. “The helicopter is being watched.”
“Who are those men?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Sandinistas, maybe; we’re only a few klicks from the Nicaraguan
