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San Miguel has the worst roads in the world. “Can they have any more pot holes? Is that possible?”
Andre glances in the mirrors again, checking all the angles. “You obviously haven’t been to downtown Newark.”
Scotch laughs even though his eyes are serious as he scans the road around us. “You might be right.”
Andre hurtles us toward the small airport on the outskirts of the city as the thickest part of night settles in. The streets are still wild with people carrying guns, but no one bothers us as Andre falls in with other speeding cars.
“Thank god,” I mutter when I finally see the blinking runway lights. “Have they touched down?”
“Not yet, they’re waiting on word from us that we’re pulling in.”
Scotch cues up the satellite phone. “We’re two minutes from the parking area.” He listens for a few seconds. “Roger. See you then.”
“South end. This is going to be a dash.” He turns, his expression gravely worried. “Can you handle running?”
“Uh. I’m not sure.”
“I think I should carry you.”
Gritting my teeth, I admit maybe that is the best idea. “I’m still feeling kind of weak.”
“You lost a lot of blood.”
We bump over the broken entrance to the airport. I grimace. “How much did I lose exactly?”
“Enough for a transfusion,” comments Andre.
I’m sure my face must register my shock. Scotch says, “It’s not uncommon in a situation like yours.”
“So, I have someone else’s blood in my veins?”
Andre glances up in the review mirror, then at Scotch.
“Yes, mine, technically,” Scotch says as we come to a screeching halt on the paved lot next to the runway.
“Yours?” I half screech.
He’s dragging me from the car and swinging me up in his big arms before I can protest. I can only grit and grimace as he runs. All the jolting freaking hurts like hell.
The air stairs drop down from the jet with a whoosh. Lit by low interior light, Marshall’s profile fills the doorway.
“Holy cow, Sprite, you scared the life out of me.”
“Me too!” echoes Sierra from the pilot's seat. “Now hurry up, boys. We’re wheels up in two minutes.”
The guys hustle us inside. Scotch eases me into a chair and buckles me in.
I grab his arm. “We’ve got something to talk about, don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m not.” He folds his big frame into the seat next to me and buckles up. “We’re set. Ready for takeoff,” he calls to Sierra.
Marshall and Andre take their places as the engines begin to roar. In just a few seconds, we’re tearing down the runway.
Pain throbs in my shoulder. I’m wiped out. All I can do is sit back as we take flight into the night sky.
Turning my face to the window, I watch the lights of Selva Oscura becoming smaller and smaller below. I’ll never forget the place. And not just because I nearly lost my life there. Because I gave up part of my sanity, and maybe even a little part of my heart there too.
I won’t be forgetting the intense heat I shared with the man next to me until the day I die.
