“Maybe I should take a look—”
“It’ll keep.” He reached into his belt and slid what looked like some type of baton from his belt. Using one hand, he snapped it in two. Yellow light filled the cave. “Emergency flare,” he said.
“Handy.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“Boy Scout, huh?”
“Something like that.”
Yeah, and you’re no ordinary cop, she thought as she took in the cave. The flare projected light only about ten feet. But it was far enough for her to see that the interior was narrow and damp and barely high enough for them to stand. Stones and loose dirt comprised the floor. The rock walls dripped with water.
“Not exactly The Ritz,” she muttered.
“Pretty damn good for stopping bullets, though.”
The mention of bullets made her shiver. “What if those men land the chopper and come after us?”
“No place to land.”
“How do you—”
“Because my pilot had one hell of a time finding a decent area for the rendezvous point.”
“Does that mean we’re going to be okay?”
“That means this cave bought us some time.”
“How much?”
When he didn’t answer she glanced at him. He’d risen and was holding the flare in front of him, trying to see farther into the cave.
“Where does it lead?” she asked.
“Hopefully not to the den of some hibernating grizzly.”
She squinted into the inky darkness. “You’re kidding, right?”
He didn’t smile, but she thought she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Deer wouldn’t use the cave if it was occupied by any kind of predator.”
“What if it’s a dead end? What if we’re trapped? What if we reach the end of the cave and have to turn around? And when we do The Jaguar’s men are waiting for us?”
He shot her a sharp look she didn’t quite understand at the mention of The Jaguar. Reaching into his belt, he retrieved a tiny box. Only after he’d struck a match did she realize what he was doing.
“It’s not a dead end,” he said.
In the flickering light of the match, she noted the tension in the set of his shoulders. She wondered if he was in pain from the gunshot wound or worried that there was no escape.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“There’s a draft.” He held the match higher. The tiny flame danced. “See?”
“That means there’s an exit?” she asked.
“The question is how far.” The flame burned close to his fingers, and he swished out the match.
“And what might be waiting for us on the other end,” she added.
“Only one way to find out,” he said, and started into the darkness.
CUTTER DIDN’T LIKE admitting it, but he’d suffered with claustrophobia since his disastrous mission in Africa two years ago. He’d learned to live with it for the most part. He’d learned to control the slick fear the way he controlled everything else. He’d passed the psych test for entry into the MIDNIGHT team not because he’d answered the questions truthfully, but because he’d known which answers the shrinks had wanted to hear.
As he and his prisoner made their way through the snaking tunnel, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were traveling deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. After twenty minutes of walking, he struck a second match. A quiver of uncertainty went through him when the flame did not flicker. Had they somehow missed a turnoff that would take them out of the cave?
“What is it?”
He jolted at the sound of her voice, quickly corrected his response and schooled his features into a cool mask. “Nothing,” he said.
But her eyes lingered on his a little too long, and he had to remind himself of just how important it was for him to remain in control of the situation.
“No air movement,” she said.
“You let me worry about that.”
For an hour the only sound came from their shoes against the rocky floor and the incessant drip of water. Cutter knew it was the claustrophobia, but he felt as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. Soon his fingers and face began to tingle. He tried to occupy his mind with more important things—like how the hell they were going to get to a phone once they found their way out of this godforsaken hole. But he couldn’t suppress the terrible sensation of being trapped and slowly suffocated.
After a while he began to sweat. Not the kind of sweat that stemmed from physical exertion or heat—the temperature inside the cave hovered just above freezing. The sweat beading on his forehead and the back of his neck was panic sweat, and it felt like ice against his skin.
“Are you all right?”
The sound of her voice jerked him from a place he knew better than to venture. The first thing any agent learned about controlling fear when he couldn’t control his environment was to discipline his mind. Not think about it. Certainly not dwell on it.
“I’m fine,” he growled.
“You’re breathing hard.”