Shivering in what he knew to be eighty-degree heat, Jules began crawling down the hillside one painful inch at a time, looking for the road.
C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
So much for easy outs.
As Jones followed Molly up the dank, spider web–filled staircase and back into the house, he could just imagine the conversation between the overzealous soldiers and their superior officer.
“What part of ambush do you idiots not understand?”
“Sir, the door opened, sir! So we discharged our weapons, as ordered!”
“At which time the door was swiftly closed. And locked. No injuries, no dead, no prisoners.”
“Sir, yes sir! No dead on our side, as well, sir! Perhaps crisp new uniforms and ten minutes of training don’t make us real soldiers after all! Sir!”
Jones’s heart was still pounding. That could have been ugly. The troops must’ve moved into place while they were in the tunnel, which was quite a flaw in the design of Emilio’s security setup.
Of course, in a perfect world, surrounded by minions, a video screen at the door of the escape tunnel probably wasn’t necessary. Because in a perfect world, cell phones still worked. A quick call to Igor in the kitchen and they’d know whether or not they were good to go.
With neither phones nor Igor, Jones had opened the door ver-r-ry carefully.
Max had anticipated trouble. He’d carried a mop with him that he’d taken from the kitchen.
As they’d traveled down the tunnel, Jones had thought Max had brought it to lean on—that he was hurt worse than he’d let on. But then he used it to clear the tunnel of the spider webs, so Jones had figured it was possible the brilliant and powerful Max Bhagat was a baby when it came to creepy-crawlies.
Of course when they’d opened that door—hatch really—Jones had discovered Max’s real reason for bringing the mop.
He’d slowly stuck it out of the opening, like a head peering out from behind the hatch . . .
And it had been shot out of his hands.
The hatch was resealed.
They were safe.
Or trapped.
Depending on how you looked at it.
Of course, another no-win, no-way-out situation seemed almost no big deal to Jones. He was already smack in the middle of one with the pregnancy and cancer thing.
He hadn’t known what to say when Molly had told him she’d felt the baby move. She was always telling him to be honest, but he knew damn well that in this case she wouldn’t want to hear what he was thinking.
As in “Gee, and I was hoping all the trauma would trigger a miscarriage.”
But okay. Molly was also always selling positive thinking, and since Jones couldn’t manage honesty right now, he was trying hard to be optimistic to make up for it. Yes, they were safe here in Emilio’s cozy little fortress. True, they were down to Plan C, but—yay rah rah, go team—in their version of the alphabet, C stood for siege. As in, go ahead and shoot at us, mo-fo’s. Short of withstanding a direct attack with some serious artillery, they were assault-proof.
Their absent host had even done most of their prep work for them, bless his black heart.
Which meant, after they’d double-checked all the doors and windows making sure they were still secure, after they’d shut down the AC and sealed all the air vents—just say no to poison gas—and filled the bathtubs, sinks, and every available container with water, as long as they kept an eye on those security monitors and made sure they weren’t under attack . . .
They had a little extra time on their hands.
And
that
meant, after they’d both had a turn in that shower—thank you, Jesus—Max was finally ready to let Jones take a look at his so-called “it’s just a scratch” of a bullet wound.
As Jones scrubbed up in the kitchen—how long had it been since he’d done that?—Molly and Gina helped by washing down the banquet-sized table. They also had water boiling, to sterilize the collection of knives and other kitchen utensils that he was going to need to de-bullet Max.
Eventually the generator—which they’d found housed down in the tunnel—would run out of gas. Until it did, they’d conserve.
They’d found a first-aid kit, but it was barely the size of a school lunch box, and the supplies inside had been mostly depleted. There were still several adhesive bandages, designed to take the place of stitches. Which was good because instead of surgical silk, someone had tossed in one of those mini sewing kits that were given out at fancy hotels.
The lack of real surgical thread worried him less than the absence of antibiotics. In this climate, with a bullet in his butt that had passed through his grimy jeans, there was a serious danger that Max would suffer from infection.
Emilio had spent a million dollars on security cameras, but apparently he couldn’t throw a few extra bucks toward a more realistic supply of medi-cal basics.
Go figure.
Clad in a white bathrobe that he’d already bled through, but looking more like his old self, thanks to a disposable razor he’d found in the bathroom, Max now searched the kitchen for Emilio’s liquor cabinet.
“If you can’t find anything,” Jones told him, “sugar’s a decent substitute. I’m assuming your intention is antibiotic rather than anesthetic.”
Max didn’t bother to answer. Stupid question. “After we’re done here,” he said instead, “we should do an inventory—go through every cabinet, every closet. See if we can’t find a shortwave radio.”
“That’s a good idea,” Molly said.
“I can’t believe that all that time we were in Kenya, you never once helped out in the hospital tent.” Gina’s words were such a non sequitor, that it took Jones a second to realize she was talking to him. Not just talking to him—bitching at him.
He closed his mouth over the “What the hell is
your
problem?” that had almost escaped.
Because he knew what her problem was. She was scared to death that Max was hurt worse than he was letting on. Plus she and Max had had an exchange of words, as Molly so politely called it, just a short time ago.
Jones didn’t take Gina’s less-than-sunny attitude personally. He knew she was also scared for Jules Cassidy—whom Max had described as being “in trouble.”
Enough with the euphemisms. Max had been shot, he and Gina had had a rip-roaring fight, and Jules was surely dead.
Jules’s “troubles” had reached an end. Help still might be on its way, but it wouldn’t be coming from him.
No, if they wanted to be rescued, they were going to have to wait however long it took for someone in the Jakarta CIA office to realize that Jules and Max had fallen off the edge of the earth.
Which would probably be a while. The U.S. Government had a few other things on their plate this week.
And, it was entirely possible that no one would ever come.
Withstanding a siege was only possible with limitless food and water. Eventually their supply would run out.
And when it did, they would be forced to go to Plan D. D for death. As in his.
Okay, now he was working the honesty angle, but it was pretty bleak. He couldn’t seem to do both honesty and positive thinking at the same time.
“He couldn’t work in our camp clinic.” Molly was defending Jones to Gina. “He didn’t want anyone to know that he had medical experience. He couldn’t risk someone connecting Leslie Pollard to either Dave Jones or Grady Morant.”
Gina turned to him. “So are you a real doctor, or . . . ?” She made a face that was part shrug, part disgusted curiosity, and pure New Yorker. Scared to death and trying to hide it by being pissed off. New Yorkers were taught from infancy never to show any fear.
“I was a medic in the Army.” Among other things. “I was trained to treat battle-related injuries—gunshot wounds are right up my alley.”
“But don’t medics just patch people up until they can get to a real hospital?” Gina’s worry was showing.
“He spent two years running a hospital for Chai.” Molly put her arm around the younger woman. “Which was the equivalent of working the ER in a city like New York or Chicago. He saved a lot of lives.” She made sure Max was paying attention, too. “And before you say, ‘Yeah, of drug runners, killers, and thieves,’ you should also know that his patients were just regular people who worked for Chai because he was the only steady employer in the area. Or because they knew they’d end up in some mass grave if they refused his offer of employment. Before Grady came in, if they were injured in some battle with a rival gang, they were just left for dead.”
Jones looked up to find Max watching him as he sterilized a particularly sharp knife. “Me and Jesus,” he said. “So much alike, people often get us confused.”
“Mock me all you want—I’m just saying.” Molly had on her Hurt Feelings face. It may have fooled Max, but Jones knew it was only there to mask her Relentless Crusader. She was lobbying hard for Max to be on Jones’s side if they made it out of here alive. And she wasn’t done. “Yes, Grady Morant worked for Chai for a few years—after the U.S. left him to die in some torture chamber. He’s so evil, except what was he doing during those two years?
Oh,
he was saving lives . . . ?”
“I was practicing medicine without a license,” Jones pointed out. “You just gave Max something else to charge me with when we get home.”
When,
not
if.
Even though he wasn’t convinced that they weren’t in
if
territory, he’d used the word on purpose. The look Molly shot him was filled with gratitude.
He gave her a smoldering blast of his best “Yeah, you can thank me later in private, baby” look, and, as he’d hoped she would, she laughed.
Max, meanwhile, had uncovered a bottle of rum. 151 proof. Yee-hah.
“Let’s do this,” he said, then turned to Gina.
“I’m not leaving,” Gina told him before he could ask her to do just that. “In case you were thinking of
cheering me on.
”
Gina was obviously referencing their earlier argument, and sure enough, Max closed his eyes as he sighed. “I’m sorry for losing my temper before.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m sorry I left you. I thought . . .” She laughed her disgust as she shook her head. “I was wrong. I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have let you chase me away just because you were scared.”
“Hail, Gina,” Jones said. “Queen of the perfect timing.”
“What?” she said. “I’m supposed to wait to say this? Until when? Until we have some privacy—oh, except for the platoons of soldiers outside, some of whom have high-tech listening devices?”
“Maybe they don’t,” Jones said. “In this part of the world, there’s not so much of the high-tech—”
Gina didn’t care. “That’s what you did, isn’t it?” she asked Max. “Chased me away?”
“Can you at least let my patient get on the table,” Jones said, “before you grill him?”
“Please,” Gina said with a grand gesture, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to slow down the process.”
Max gave it one last try. “I’d rather you weren’t in h—”
“No.”
Max glanced at Molly.
“I’ll catch her if she gets woozy,” she assured him.
He just shook his head, no doubt recognizing that if there ever were a time to surrender, it was right now.
At least it was here, in their makeshift operating room. Dealing with the army that was gathering out on the street was a different story.
Max climbed onto the table and settled himself face down, head on his folded arms.
Jones lifted the edge of the bathrobe and . . .
“Oh my God,” Gina breathed.
That was no mere
scratch.
That bullet was going to hurt coming out. And then he had to clean the wound.
“Oh my God, is right,” Molly said, admiration in her voice. “Nice butt, Bhagat.”
“Hey,” Jones said, mostly because he knew she expected him to. As usual, the woman who probably had cancer was working to keep things upbeat.
Sure enough, she looked at him wearing her “What?” face, a picture of pure G-rated Sunday School innocence as she told Gina, “His wound really is very superficial. I mean, yeah, he’s going to have a cute little scar . . .” She turned to Jones. “You have a very nice butt, too, honey.”
“Oh my God,” Gina said again, more faintly and Jones quickly looked over at her. She was living up to the reputation she’d gotten back in Kenya.
Get an extra bed ready for Vitagliano,
Sister Double-M would mutter when Gina came into the hospital tent to help. Right now she was green.
“Mol . . .” he warned.
“Yup, I’ve got her.”
“Gina, come here and hold my hand,” Max said through gritted teeth, as Molly pushed her into a chair, pushed her head down between her legs. “Jones, will you please goddamn tell her that I’m going to be fine?”
“Gina, he’s going to be fine,” Jones repeated. He kept the second half of that sentence to himself:
Provided that army outside didn’t get hold of some demolitions experts and figure out a way to blow a hole in Emilio’s assault-proof castle.
Jules heard voices.
It was possible that they were good voices—the real kind, not the kind that were in his head that urged him to close his eyes just for a moment, to surrender, just for a short time, to the darkness.
He’d found it worked best to talk back to them—the inside-his-head voices. “We all know if I close my eyes, it’s over.”
Wouldn’t it be nice for it just to be over? It’s called eternal peace for a reason . . .
“
Shut up,
shut up.
Shut up,
shut up.” He used it as a mantra. Or maybe it was more like a marching cadence. Right elbow out on the first
Shut up,
digging in, pulling him forward on the next. He mixed it up occasionally with the longer version. “
Shut
the fuck
up. Shut
the fuck
up . . .
”
But now the voices he heard were coming from an external source. Unless, of course, the inside-his-head voices’ powers were growing stronger, combining forces with the double vision and the relentless pain. Unless they were now able to make him hallucinate.
In which case he was screwed.
Okay, that was so not Jules.
That was one of the voices, pretending to be him. He was
not
screwed. He refused to be screwed. He would just keep on ignoring them.
Because eternal peace sounded way too boring. He didn’t want to be eternally peaceful. He wanted to be eternally on vacation in Provincetown with the man of his dreams. He wanted to be eternally loved, married even—with two kids and a dog.