From Thailand with Love Page 16

  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 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 on 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.

  “Dude.” There’s a dull sound, like that of one boot kicking another. “Are you sleeping?”

  With a snort, the sentry awakens.

  Heart beating to a frenzy in my throat, I crab-walk backward toward the center of the tent. The rattle of the pills in my pockets pounds in my ears, seeming louder than cannon shots. I sit to give my legs a rest. Still like a stone and bathed in almost utter darkness, I dread even the sound of my breathing will be too loud.

  “You’re lucky it was me, dude,” the same voice says. “Smith would’ve taken your scalp.”

  “Relax, my man. No one’s here. And I had my boots on the weapons all along, didn’t I? No one is going to sneak past me.”

  If the situation wasn’t so tragic, I’d evil-laugh.

  “All right, man,” the guy who was sleeping continues. “Your gig now. Run it as you like.”

  There’s a scraping noise, and then the shuffling of steps until everything goes quiet again. A new sentry, and I have a feeling this one won’t conveniently fall asleep for me.

  What now?

  I can’t risk going out the way I snuck in. Not with a freshly awakened, alert soldier out there looking out for trouble. The chances he’d spot me coming out of the tent are too high. I have to find something to cut my way out from the back. Good thing I’m in a supply tent; there must be a tool in here I can use.

  A thousand times more careful not to make a sound than before, I grope for the toolbox. When I find it, I unhinge the plastic locks, their soft clicks echoing too loud in my ears, and feel my way through the various tools. I sigh in relief when my fingers slide over a cutter.

  Blade in hand, I find a spot of wall clear of supplies and try to steady my hand as I slice a vertical opening in the sturdy fabric. The cutter must be new, because it slices downward as if I were cutting through butter.

  Outside, I close the cutter and pocket it. Okay, now the hard part. I move away from the camp until I find a small clearing where a ray of moonlight is filtering through the trees above. The faint light is enough for me to read the pill labels and identify the antibiotics and the paracetamol. Archie was shivering like he was burning up, so paracetamol should help to take his temperature down. And even if he’s not feverish, I bet he could use a little help managing the pain.

  I hide the rest of the pill bottles in a patch of grass; I can’t risk getting confused when I have to give them to Archie. Summoning the last dregs of energy and courage I have left, I keep going toward the prisoners’ corner. I’m not far now.

  Once there, I stop again, considering. My friends are all asleep, slumped as best as they can against the tree. A pang of worry pulls at my chest as I notice Archie’s head hanging lower than all the others.

  This is the tricky part.

  How do I get to them without being spotted by the sentry?

  The prisoners aren’t directly in the line of view of the sentry, but the soldier must have at least a partial visual on them—and judging from the way they are oriented, on Archie in particular.

  Damn!

  What do I do?

  Tucker is sitting next to Archie, and he should be shielded enough from the soldier’s position. My best bet is to hand the pills to Tucker and have him give them to Archie. Assuming he’s able to do it tied up like that. But first I need to wake him without him making a sound, and thus giving our game away.

  I crawl right in front of him and place my palm squarely on his mouth.

  Tucker’s eyes fly wide open, but my hand prevents him from crying out.

  “Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s me, Winter.”

  With my face covered in dirt, I must be unrecognizable and possibly frightening. But Tucker is quicker than I would’ve been in recovering from the shock and gives me a curt nod. So I let my hand drop from his mouth and press a finger to my lips.

  Tucker stares at me interrogatively, and I don’t need him to actually ask what’s going on for me to understand the unspoken question.

  “We don’t have much time,” I explain. “Logan is looking for your satellite phone to call for help. I brought antibiotics and paracetamol for Archie, and some water. How long have you been stuck here?”

  “Since yesterday morning,” Tucker whispers back, his voice hoarse.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good. It’s been hours since I felt him move, and he’s burning up.”

  “Okay, give these to him.” I press the antibiotic pills int
o his hand. “But careful the guard doesn’t spot you.”

  Tucker lifts his tied-up hands to Archie’s mouth and forces the pills in, while I keep to the side and out of sight of the sentry. A low moan escapes our friend’s lips.

  “Make him swallow them,” I hiss.

  “I can’t lift his head.” Tucker shows me his bound wrists as an explanation. “You’ll have to give him the water.”

  Hands shaking with fear of getting caught, I retrieve the canteen from the folds of my shirt, unscrew the top and, keeping as much to the side as I can—I’m basically straddling poor Tucker—I gently lift Archie’s head. When his chin is tilted up at the right angle, I press the bottle to his lips. He’s still unconscious, but some primordial survival instinct must prompt him to drink. Like a baby sucking at the bottle, in a few deep gulps he finishes the water. As soon as I let go, Archie’s chin slumps back to his chest with a slight loll. But at least he’s taken the pills.

  Crouching back on the ground, I give Tucker the remaining antibiotics and paracetamol.

  “I don’t have any more water. Sorry.”

  Tucker nods.

  “I have to go now. But hold tight.” I squeeze his knee in an encouraging gesture. “Reinforcements will come soon.”

  We exchange another, more meaning-loaded nod, and I scamper away.

  I find Logan waiting in our spot, evidently going mad with worry.

  “What took you so long?” he demands, the moment I step out of the darkness.

  “Sorry, I had a couple of snafus—”

  “Shut up,” he interrupts, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug that lets me know how much he’d been worried.

  Still hugging, we sink to the ground and lie down to sleep, not bothering to even lay a blanket before sheer exhaustion makes both of us pass out in each other’s arms.

  Nineteen

  Logan

  The pain in my back wakes me up the next morning even before the first sunrays filter through the jungle’s dense canopy. But dawn is close, and the day promises to be another scorcher in this blasted furnace of a jungle.

  As I stir, my body hurts even more than yesterday, if that’s possible. Lactic acid is attacking my every joint, and every muscle in my limbs is screaming in protest. Sleeping on the humid ground hasn’t helped either, I bet.

  I shake Winter awake, and from the way she winces in pain before she even opens her eyes, I can tell she’s not faring much better.

  We don’t have any food or water left, and the stomach cramps just add to our general state of misery. But at least we’re free, and we have each other.

  Winter smiles at me. Last night we fell asleep before we even had time to discuss our respective missions. I assume she succeeded, or she would have said something, but I still want to hear it from her lips.

  “Did you manage to get to Archie?”

  “Yeah, and I gave Tucker some extra pills, too. Did you call for help?”

  “Yep, Smith’s coup should be over soon. The good guys are on the way.”

  “So, what now? We just wait?”

  “I guess. And we should keep an eye on the camp, although I’m not sure how we can stop Smith if he decides to hurt our friends.”

  “I’m sure we can think of something. Did they say how long before the police get here?”

  “No. I talked with a clerk at the embassy, but the phone died halfway through the conversation. I managed to give them our exact position before the line got cut off, and also stressed the direness of the situation. They should arrive soon. But I want to check on Archie anyway, make sure the drugs worked.”

  Winter nods. “Let’s go.”

  When we reach our usual vantage point, we lay flat on our bellies and monitor the clearing through Winter’s telescope. The camp is already stirring with activity. Smith & Co. are loading the mule, and it looks like they’ll be ready to take off at any minute.

  I train the magnifying glass on Archie’s face next, and sigh with relief. Some color has returned to his cheeks, and he’s sitting up much straighter than yesterday. His head isn’t lolling lifelessly to the side anymore, and his eyes are open and attentive. Still, the grimace of pain that pulls at my best friend’s mouth is unmistakable.

  “What do you see?” Winter asks.

  “Archie is much better, here”—I push the telescope into her hands—“see for yourself.”

  As she looks, I kiss her temple. “Thank you, it’s all because of you.”

  Nothing significant happens for about half an hour, while the soldiers are busy with their preparations. But once they’re done, Carter asks Smith the question I’ve been dreading all along, “What about the prisoners, sir?”

  Smith, eyes dark and cold as those of a falcon, turns toward our friends and colleagues and frowns.

  A sense of foreboding takes residence in my gut. I don’t like that scowl. I don’t like it one bit.

  Smith’s eyebrows draw closer together, and he walks over to the prisoners and squats right in front of Archie.

  “Well, Mr. Hill, if you don’t look rosy as a peach this fine morning.” He roughly pulls Archie’s hair to lift his head and presses the back of his other hand to my friend’s forehead. “No fever, either. CARTER! MONTGOMERY!”

  Like obedient dogs, his minions immediately respond to the summons.

  “Sir.”

  “Sir.”

  “It seems we have a bit of a miracle on our hands…”

  “Sir?” Carter repeats.

  “Our esteemed guest, Mr. Hill, has prodigiously recovered from his fever. Now, I’m not much of a spiritual man myself… so I suspect we might’ve had a pair of unwanted visitors last night. Two little critters sneaking in the dark. Carter, Montgomery, did you notice anything unusual during your guards?”

  “No, sir,” Montgomery says at once.

  “Carter?”

  Carter shuffles on his feet, uncomfortable, but Smith doesn’t even have to talk to convince him to speak. The colonel’s mean stare is enough of a threat. “Sir, I found Montgomery asleep at his post when I relieved him of his duty at zero three hundred hours last night, sir.”

  Montgomery looks affronted for a second at being ratted out like that, but he doesn’t have much time to show his indignation before Smith makes his head snap sideways with a backhanded blow. “You idiot! Search all the tents. I want to know where they went and what they took.”

  Next to me, Winter tenses. “What do we do now?”

  “Nothing. Even if they figure out what we took, they don’t know where we are.”

  “What if they come searching for us?”

  “I doubt Smith will want to lose precious time coming after us.”

  “Sir!”

  A shout makes us turn our eyes back to the camp. We watch as Smith walks toward the supply tent, while Montgomery relates his findings. “There’s a tear in the back of the tent, Sir, the supplies are in disarray and most of the medicines are gone.”

  “So, Mr. Hill’s miraculous recovery is explained. Carter! You find anything?”

  “Yes, sir.” The other soldier joins them. “I found a similar tear in Wallace’s tent.”

  “Mmm.” Smith ponders this for a moment, then walks back to the prisoners. “It’s obvious why they went after the medicines in the supply tent, but…” Smith squats in front of Tucker. “Hey, Jonas Brother, what were they looking for in your tent?”

  “I don’t know,” Tucker says.

  “Really?” Menacing as a cobra, Smith rises to his feet, unsheathes his handgun from his belt, and points it at Tucker’s head. “I’d love to interrogate you the old-fashioned way, buddy, but unfortunately there ain’t time for that. So either you tell me what’s going on, or”—he lowers the gun—“I bust your kneecaps. The right first, then the left.”

  Tucker, talk, I pray silently. No point in playing the hero.

  A cold rage fills me at how powerless we are against these brutes.

>   “Come on,” Smith threatens. “Don’t make me count to ten.”

  “My gun, okay?” Tucker snaps. “I had a gun hidden in my backpack. Logan knew about it.”

  Winter gasps next to me. “Why is Tucker telling them we have a gun?”

  “He’s being smart,” I say. “He doesn’t want them to realize we called for help.”

  “But why?”

  “Because if Smith knows about the reinforcements, he might change his plan—take a different path, maybe bring along some of the prisoners as hostages… Right now, the only threat he knows about is us. And I think he considers us more of an annoyance than anything.”

  “Yeah, but now they think we have a gun,” Winter says. “Smith won’t stand for that. He’ll come after us just the same.”

  “He still has to find us first.”

  Smith takes a few steps back, still clutching his Beretta in one meaty hand.

  “Dr. Spencer, Miss Knowles,” he shouts. “How very impolite of you not to stay for breakfast. Now I feel like you just used me for a night’s fun and left me to hang the next morning.” He approaches the prisoners again and points the gun at Archie’s head. “I suggest you don’t try anything funny with that gun you stole, or I’ll blow Mr. Hill’s head right off. A pity, really, after all the effort you’ve put into saving his life. And even if you shoot me first”—he makes a jerking motion with his chin at Carter—“Carter here will take care of Mr. Hill for me.”

  The sergeant takes out his own gun and points it at Archie, while Smith keeps shouting threats. “I’m sure none of us would want that, now, would we?”

  Winter and I both keep dead still on the ridge, looking aghast at the scene below us, unsure what to do.

  “No need to act like children,” Smith continues. “Do I really have to count to ten?”

  We still don’t move.

  “All right. You have until ten. ONE… TWO…”

  I turn to Winter. “I have to go.”

  “THREE…”

  “What? No! Are you crazy?”

  “FOUR…”

  “It makes no difference if they have me, too,” I say. “But you stay hidden right here.”