Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
At that second, I heard footsteps behind me. I stood up and whirled around, but not fast enough. The guard with the ponytail was standing there, glaring. He snapped his rifle up and pointed it right at me. What were you doing, he demanded in Spanish.
I swallowed, terrified. My whole world seemed to narrow down to that yawning barrel and the sight of his finger, hooked around the trigger. I glanced around, searching for an excuse—
There was an open bag of chips lying on a table, near where I’d peeked through the wall. I—I took one, I stammered in Spanish. I’m sorry, I was so hungry…
He blinked, then burst out laughing, lowering the gun. For a second, I relaxed.
Then he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the liquor on his breath. I’ll bring you food, he told me. But you already owe me for the hot water.
Oh Jesus. That’s why he’d helped me.
His hands went to the top button of my blouse. I froze, my mind racing. Hit him? He’d shoot me. Run? Run where?!
A voice barked in Spanish: What’s she doing out of the cage?! We both turned. The head of the camp was standing just outside the shack, glaring. The guard with the ponytail mumbled something about the hot water. I quickly poured the kettle into a bowl and picked it up, took the shirt the guard had brought me, and let him walk me back to the cage.
After he’d locked me in, the guard grabbed my hand through the bars and squeezed it. I haven’t forgotten, he told me. You owe me. Tonight.
I stared at him, feeling myself breaking inside. Jesus, he wanted me to…and not just once, but whenever I needed more supplies.
As he strolled off, whistling, I felt the tears finally prickle free of my eyes. I turned so the other doctors couldn’t see. I knew Dr. Guzman would blame himself and I didn’t want him to feel any worse. I stood there holding onto the bars with silent tears trickling down my cheeks.
I was in hell.
And no one was coming to save me.
12
GABRIEL
“This is it,” muttered JD, looking up at an ornate but shabby building.
Thank God. I leaned against the wall and tried to get my breath. We’d been in Ecuador an hour. We’d spent most of that hiking uphill through Quito’s winding streets, but I shouldn’t be struggling this much. “Anyone else feel…weird?”
Colton nodded gratefully. “Thought it was just me.”
“I’ve got a hangover but I don’t remember drinking,” said Danny.
“It’s the lack of oxygen,” JD told us. “Because we’re at a different altitude.”
Danny looked up at Cal. “Must be even worse for you. You were at a different altitude to start with.” Everyone chuckled, and JD waved us inside.
The place was an old hotel. It must have been a high-end place once: there was wood paneling everywhere, a chandelier overhead and an elaborate staircase. But now the paint was peeling and the floorboards creaked. The bar downstairs had become a roost for American expats and that was probably all that was keeping the place open. I rubbed at my stubble, trying to get used to being in a foreign country again. For three years, my entire world had fitted into less than a square mile.
The bartender was a local woman in her twenties, with long dark hair. Danny walked in through the door, went over to the bar and slid onto the bar stool in front of her in one unbroken movement. “I’m Danny,” he told her with a broad, cocky grin. “And who are you?”
The rest of us stopped just inside the door, looking around. We were meant to be meeting the pilot who’d fly us to the camp, a guy called Mitchell Gantz. But the only other person aside from the bartender was a woman hunched over a bottle of beer. Not her first, judging by the empties on the table.
We stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, but no one else appeared. JD leaned on the bar to get the bartender’s attention but she was oblivious. Danny was telling her some story in that rough London accent and she was leaning forward, hanging on his every word. JD sighed and elbowed Danny and the pair glanced up.
“Looking for Mitchell Gantz,” JD told the bartender. “You know him?”
The bartender blinked, as if waking from a dream. “Gina?” she called to the other woman. “You seen Gantz?”
Gina grunted and took a swig of beer. “Probably stayed up all night playing video games and then fell asleep.” Her voice was American and more than a little slurred. She tossed her black, bob-cut hair back from her face and frowned at us. “He flying you out to cartel territory?”
JD marched over, furious. We weren’t meant to be in Ecuador and the fewer people knew about our mission, the better. “How in the hell did you know that? Did Gantz tell you?”