Standing up requires a not-so-minute adjustment of the woody in my pants. Garcia pretends not to notice but Ava smirks. Over by the wall, I pull another camp shirt out from the pack and toss it at her. “You best get dressed on your own,” I tell her when she hesitates. “If I come in there and I see your naked tits, we’re not making it out of the room for another thirty minutes, and that’ll make hard-ass here even grumpier.”
She turns a beet red color but disappears, clutching the sheet tight against her body.
“I’m a grumpy hard-ass?” Garcia asks as he rises from his chair.
“Also the best gun this town has ever seen,” I say and swipe the locator up and jerk my head toward the exterior door. “We’ll be back, Ava. Garcia and I are going to piss and then get rid of this GPS tracker.”
A muffled okay from the bedroom follows us out the door.
“Worried about you, man,” Garcia says as soon as we’re far enough away from the hut that Ava can’t hear us. “You seem awfully attached to this chick. Promising to save her stupid-ass friend? How’re we going to do that?”
“I’m thinking we make a trade. Give Duval all this shit in exchange for Rose, and then we steal it back before the buy just like we originally planned.”
“We’re making things extra hard on ourselves because you want to get laid,” he grumbles.
I stop because I need to address this shit before it gets out of hand. I lay both of my hands on his shoulders. “We don’t even know if we’ve got anything. Maybe it’s one part of the puzzle, maybe it’s the whole damn thing. But you and I and the rest of the guys are the best damn team ever assembled. It’s why the government came to us and not someone else. Duval’s got no chance against us in the end. He’s a two-bit criminal with a taste for high drama that’s going to bring him down in the end. We got this. Plus, aren’t we all about trying to help those who don’t have it in them to help themselves? Isn’t that the whole fucking point of the island and the home we’re building there? I want to save Davidson as much as you do. We just have a couple more strays to take care of.”
He drops his head to his chest and takes a few breaths. I wait as it sinks in, as his fear for me subsides and his sense of justice kicks in. It doesn’t take long. He chuckles, a rueful, rough sound. “Sorry. Got sidetracked there.”
“No worries, man.” I let him go. We let a comfortable silence settle in until we reach the river. Then we drop down the embankment and plant the locator in the mud and cover it with a few rocks.
Afterward, he says, “It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”
“You have no idea, Garcia. No idea.” I slap him on the back.
Ava is ready for us, dressed in a camp shirt that has never looked so sexy, and a pair of loose-fitting pants that she’s holding around her waist. Garcia crouches next to the bag and pulls out a rope, which he holds out to Ava.
She stares at it like it’s a snake.
To Garcia’s credit, he doesn’t get mad. “It’s for your pants. To hold them up,” he explains.
“Oh, gotcha. Thanks.” She takes the rope and winds the length around her twice. I help her make a knot and then we pile into the sedan.
As Garcia guns the engine, I pop open the glove compartment and pull out the handgun.
“Nice. How much more we got?”
“There’s the AK you took off the villagers and two other long guns. There should be another magazine in there, too.” He pats the dash.
“Good to know.” I chamber a round and hold it loosely in my lap.
“Is the drive dangerous?” Ava tries not to sound worried, but fails.
“Just being extra cautious,” I reassure her. The road between Campoverde and Pucallpa is paved but completely dark at night. Only the headlights from the car illuminate the long stretch ahead. “Why don’t you try sleeping,” I suggest.
She nods and stretches out on the seat.
Garcia and I keep a watchful eye for oncoming traffic. The mercenaries have likely missed their check-in time with Duval, and if I was him, I’d have sent out a scout hours ago. But Duval’s not a mercenary. He’s a criminal with a lot of money and a thirst for more.
The road whips by, black against black blocking any meaningful scenery. We keep the music off so we can listen for oncoming traffic. In the backseat, soft whiffles signal Ava’s asleep.
“Do you think those emails and shit have a code in them? And the buyer knows?” Garcia asks, his fingers tapping the wheel.
“Could be. Never thought of that.” I hate these fucking spy games. We’re mercenaries—soldiers for hire. We protect our people by killing others. We’re physical creatures, not thinkers. Have a target to take out? Have a body that is in need of protection? Have something you want destroyed or taken? We can do that. But we don’t decipher codes and we don’t think up elaborate schemes involving multiple buyers and red herrings.
I’m too straightforward. Maybe if Bennito were in charge it’d be different, but he’s not. He’s a twenty-five-year-old computer whiz we saved from a life of imprisonment because he hacked into a major website and played an ode to the current girl he was boning at the time. The relationship died a quick death after the police showed up at her house to question her.