“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I spin around, gun already in my hand, my finger ready to squeeze the trigger, to find a young woman leaning up against the trunk of a tree, arms folded across her chest.
My first thought: Wow.
She’s beautiful. Her dark gray tank top hangs loose on her frame, the front tucked into her dirty, ripped jeans. She’s covered in sweat, her forehead glistening with it, which somehow makes her look…well, hot. Hazel almond-shaped eyes, thick, light brown hair shot through with strands of gold, tied in a messy knot on top of her head. Freckles. Freckles everywhere… Across the bridge of her nose, over her high cheekbones, over her shoulders. Her skin is a deep golden color. Perfect. Utterly flawless. She must be in her mid to late twenties, and she looks very, very amused.
I only notice the huge, serrated knife in her hand when she points it at the doorway I was about to step through. “We booby-trapped that place a few years ago. A trip wire across the doorway. Old land mines buried under the dirt floor. I can’t really remember where everything is now. Personally, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go snooping, Mr. American. It would be a sad day for you.” Her accent is mild; she could easily pass as an American herself, but there is something there. A soft, subtle lilt that lets me know English probably isn’t her first language.
“Is that right?” I consider the shell of the building in front of me, trying to buy some time. Trying to decide how this situation is going to play out. I’m holding up a gun, and this girl, whoever the fuck she is, has a huge knife clasped casually in her right hand. Gun beats knife every time, but still. No need to automatically assume she’s hostile.
“How do you know I’m American?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
A smile pulls at her lips. She shrugs one shoulder, pushing away from the tree. “You’re the only person out here wearing a leather jacket in one hundred degree heat.” A pout. A really fucking sexy pout. “And then there’s the fact that we got a call from a friend of ours a couple of days ago, letting us know that an insane guy on a motorcycle was probably headed toward Orellana. That kind of gave you away.”
Hmm. Someone from Perez’s place must have figured out who’d paid them a visit, and where I’d likely be headed next. Perfect. I should have killed those four bastards in the living room after all. “I see.”
“You should put away your gun, Mr. America. It’s hard to have a conversation when you’re staring down the barrel of a pistol.”
I eye her knife, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“You may as well,” she advises me. “There are men in the trees all around you, and their guns are much bigger and much more impressive than yours.”
I cast my eyes around, searching through the camouflage of the greens and browns surround us, and I can’t see anything. I got very good at spotting snipers in the desert, but I can’t seem to find anyone here. “You’re bluffing,” I tell her.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess the choice is yours, Mr. America. Do you lower your gun and talk to me like a civilized man, or do you risk finding out if I’m telling the truth?”
The situation really is that black and white. I do as I’m told, or I potentially get shot in the head and I never see it coming. My grip tightens on my gun. “Sorry. You are literally gonna have to prise my weapon from my cold, dead hand.” I never had my rifle taken from me in Afghanistan. I’m sure as fuck not going to lose a weapon in some rainforest in Ecuador.
The woman’s smile spreads across her face. “As you wish.” She gives a slight nod of her head, and I hear the bolt of a rifle being drawn. I duck to the left just in time to avoid the bullet that comes tearing out of nowhere; it buzzes my arm, clipping my jacket, tearing a hole in the leather. Miraculously I’m not even grazed, but I’ll admit my heart rate has jumped up a notch.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
“But didn’t I warn you, Mr. America?” the woman says, grinning. Her teeth are perfect. She looks like she got them straightened and whitened in Hollywood.
“I suppose, in fairness, you did.”
“Are you going to put down your gun now?”
I consider this for a second. “How about I keep my gun but I put it away? And you put down that very manly knife of yours?”
“But I like my knife.”
“I like my gun.”
“I see we are too similar, Mr. America. Perhaps a conversation is out of the question after all.”
I don’t say anything. The two of us just observe each other for a moment, and then she tips her head back and laughs. “No need to look so serious. I’m only playing with you.” She throws the knife in the air and catches it by the handle, then slides it inside her belt, tucking it away. “Why don’t you tell me your name, Mr. America? That way we can be friends, and not have all of this hostility between us.”