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Aurelio Fajardo was handling the mules, which figured. Aurelio looked like the less friendly kind of grandpa—or maybe he saved that glowering air of disapproval just for Adam. After all, Adam had an unfortunate habit of coming back from his expeditions a few mules short of the full contingent he’d rented from Aurelio. Adam had managed to talk his way around that problem the first two times it happened, but he figured he was probably on some damned thin ice as far as Aurelio was concerned.
The two guys from Caulker Caye, Pacheco and Lopez, were new to him. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen. The pair spent most of their time chatting with each other incessantly, flipping from Spanish to Kriol based on which language was less likely to be understood by whoever was within earshot.
There were also four East Indians fresh out of their indentured service contracts over in Jamaica—if they hadn’t just run off. There were Indians all over the various British colonial holdings in the Caribbean. Most of them were from the Bhojpuri region. They were treated pretty miserably once they arrived. Adam wouldn’t have blamed Ram and the other guys if they’d decided to take off, contract be damned, and build a new life for themselves in a different port.
He didn’t recognize any of Jacobs’ armed men. There were ten of them altogether—more than enough for him to feel unpleasantly surrounded.
Adam had spotted two other faces in the crowd that he was particularly interested in catching up with. When the caravan stopped for lunch, he finally got his chance.
The mules brayed with irritation as Nigel handed out dry rations from the expedition’s supplies. The forest around them had already started to include more of the tall pines that would dominate the landscape of the mountains.
Adam’s guard, Staines, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another as Adam crunched down some hard biscuit and dried goat. As the day progressed, the guy had managed to look even more bored and put-upon by his assignment.
Staines jumped as a troll-like figure popped up at his back. The new arrival’s pale skin was permanently ruddied from years in the sun—at least, the little of it that could be seen past the mass of an unruly reddish-brown beard. He was built as solidly as a brick wall, for all that the top of his head was maybe level with Adam’s biceps.
“Eh niaiseux,” the troll announced as he gave Staines a poke in the ribs. “The boss is asking for you.”
Histhewas dulled intode, whileaskingdrew itself out intohasking. One didn’t often hear the distinctive tones of a Quebecois accent in the colony of British Honduras.
Staines managed to look both annoyed at the interruption and hopeful at a possible reassignment.
“And who’s gonna watch this bakra here, then?” he demanded.
“I’m going to watch him,” the Quebecois replied.
“But you don’t have one of the guns,” Staines pointed out.
The squat Canadian plucked a wicked, gleaming length of machete from the sheath at his belt.
“This good enough for you? Or do you want a closer look?” He punctuated this with a slightly terrifying grin that showed off his three missing teeth.
“Good enough,” Staines agreed. He swung his rifle to his back and stalked off.
“Salut, Lessard,” Adam said easily once Staines had gone.
“Bonne après-midi, Anglo,” Lessard replied. He punctuated the traditional Quebecois insult by loosing a stream of tobacco-stained expectorant.
It nearly hit a lizard. The lizard scampered away in alarm.
Adam had known Martin Lessard for years. Lessard had been a logger in Canada for decades before coming to British Honduras. Adam still wasn’t entirely sure what had brought him there, as there were still plenty of trees to cut in Canada. The ways of Lessard were a mystery you didn’t really want to get close enough to solve—but the hairy Quebecois was a hell of a hunter with a keen sense of direction. He also came in pretty handy in a brawl.
“It’s nice to see you,” Adam offered genuinely.
“It will be nicer to see you when you learn how to speak like a man instead of forcing me to use your ugly bastard language,” Lessard replied casually.
Lessard, like most of his countrymen, had decided opinions about the superiority of Quebec’s particular variety of French.
They were joined a moment later by Charles Goodwin. The lean, well-muscled Kriol man kept his hair close-cropped and natural above a neat beard. He swung himself onto a boulder and rolled a cigarette as he watched Staines stomp across the camp.
“You got your hand in the tiger’s mouth this time, bali,” Charlie commented blandly.
“It’s not my finest moment,” Adam admitted.
Charlie was a regular on Adam’s expeditions. He’d grown up in the bush trailing his father, who had made his living as a mahogany cutter. Charlie was wickedly resourceful and generally unflappable. He had gotten Adam out of more than one tough pinch in the past.
“And with a woman,” Charlie added pointedly. “Can’t wait to hear about that.”
He flicked a match to life against the stone, lit his smoke, and took a satisfied draw.
