“Well, I haven’t been cooped up for that long,” Pete said. “I’ll just stay here with the prisoners.”
“They are coming as well,” Lourdes barked. She clapped her hands. “Apúrate,” she said. Hurry up.
“It’s freezing out there,” Marie argued. “I’m afraid Simon is already getting sick.”
Jorge, who’d been making sandwiches in the kitchen, poked his head around the corner. “My leg is bothering me,” he said. “I can stay with them.”
“Aaahhhhhhh!” Lourdes screeched. “We all go! Put on your coats or not, I do not care. We leave in two minutes.”
“Oh, mi madre,” Jorge whispered, biting his bottom lip. His eyes fell on the crying baby.
Marie scrambled to fit a squalling Simon into his hooded fleece jumper. In between shuddering sobs he looked up at her with accusing eyes, not understanding why she had to be so rough. It killed her inside to force him.
Knowing better than to argue with his crazy boss, Jorge slipped into his ratty Carhartt jacket and limped to the door.
A light coating of snow had covered the yard behind the house, powdering the small utility shed and propane tank. Sagging clotheslines hung in perfect shallow curves against the backdrop of a small orchard of a dozen leafless apple trees. A hundred yards beyond the orchard over a plowed stretch of field, a line of spruce trees marked the entrance to a copse of thick woods that ran up the side of a low hill, one of many islands of trees here and there on the rolling farmland.
Marie stopped at the orchard when she realized Lourdes was leading them toward the dark line of forest. Nothing good could come from walking into such a place with this horrible woman. Still, with Simon in her arms she could not fight, so a moment later she trudged on. Snow kicked up into her Danskos at each shuffling step and melted into her socks.
Ten yards inside the forest, Marie saw the mound of freshly dug earth. Her stomach clenched as she recognized it immediately for what it was. A grave. In the center of a small clearing, it was protected by the canopy of tall spruce trees and frosted with only a hint of snow.
Marie stopped in her tracks twenty feet from the pile of turned earth. She swayed, struggling to stay on her feet. Simon was too big for her to carry far and her legs shook from the effort and fear.
Lourdes raised a sullen brow at Pete and Jorge, who’d been walking single file with Marie in between them, and nodded toward the hole. “It will have to do,” she said. Cold pinked her cheeks and the tip of her nose. The tam hung low across her eyes. She retraced her steps so she passed Pete and stood directly in front of Marie.
Simon squirmed and fussed, trying to get down and play in the snow.
Lourdes looked on smugly, studying him.
“We have come to a crossroads,” she said with a snarling grin. “Where changes must be made.”
Marie’s heart told her to run as fast as she could, but she knew there was nowhere to go. Her stomach lurched and the world seemed to spin around her as she felt Jorge’s hands on her arm. This couldn’t be happening. She had dreams, Simon had to go to college, have a girlfriend… Her vision blurred with tears and soul-crushing terror. She found it impossible even to swallow.
Pete grabbed her other arm and helped Jorge lead her to stand at the edge of the rectangular hole.
Oddly, once at the edge Marie felt a sudden calm come over her. What made her any more important than the murdered mothers and children she heard about on the news? They surely had dreams as well. She set her jaw and stared straight ahead. If she and Simon were dead, Matt could do what he needed to do. Maybe no one else would be hurt by these awful people. She began to sense everything around her in perfect detail. The toes of her Danskos sent a skittering of loose dirt over the edge with a hollow rattle. Small roots hung snakelike from the sides. The rich earthiness of the forest soil on chilly air tickled her nose. She no longer cared about herself but wanted only to make certain Simon did not suffer.
Beside her, Jorge’s hand began to tremble.
“I am sorry, señora,” he whispered, a split second before Lourdes shot him in the back of the head.
Jorge convulsed momentarily at her arm, nearly pulling her into the grave before he fell away. His body stiffened and he toppled headlong into the pit.
Every ounce of clarity she’d just felt flew from Marie with the sound of the pistol. Eyes wide in horror, she vomited into the hole. Clutching Simon to her breast, she collapsed to her knees, head bowed, bracing for the next shot.
It never came.
“He was weak,” Lourdes snapped. “Weakness is worse than babies.” She looked Marie in the eye. “Besides, I want you to understand what is coming to you… in time.” She turned on her heels to start for the house, leaving Jorge’s body alone in the open earth.
“Move your ass,” Pete stammered, clearly shaken that his boss had just shot one of her own.
Marie struggled to stand, scrambling to keep from sliding into the grave with the dead man. Lourdes trudged ahead without looking back. Pete plodded along behind, cursing and giving Marie a shove every few steps to prove there wasn’t the tiniest bit of weakness in him.
CHAPTER 42
Quinn sat quietly with a watered-down Gatorade in his hand, staring into the flames of a small campfire. They’d walked a hundred meters outside the bivouac fence and a small sand dune blocked them from the hubbub of scooters, power tools, and foot traffic that went on all night inside the enclosure. There was no suitable wood, but Bo made do by pouring two cups of gasoline on a mound of sand. Orange shadows played off the faces of Thibodaux, Bo, and Aleksandra, who all sat in folding camp chairs watching the same fire.
The KTM’s tires and oil had been changed, Quinn had been fed and watered and completed his road book after his shower. All his Dakar duties complete, it was good to sit for a moment and collect his thoughts — and try to figure out Zamora.
“Hey, Jericho,” Bo said. One hand held an open bottle of rum, the other was shoved down the pocket of a handwoven cotton hoodie he’d bought from a local street vendor. “Remember what Dad calls a fire like this?”
“Cowboy TV.” Quinn laughed, enjoying the memory. “Our old man tells the dumbest jokes.”
“I know a joke,” Aleksandra said. Flames reflected on her oval face. Both hands rested in the pockets of her fleece vest.
“A joke?” Bo said, taking a swig of rum. “Impressive.”
She glanced up from the fire to glare hard at him. “Russians are very funny people,” she said.
“Yeah,” Bo said, rolling his eyes. “That’s obvious.”
“We do not giggle like maniacs at every little thing.” Aleksandra turned back to the fire, her face bordering on a pout. “But Russians have a fine sense of humor.”
“I think Mr. Bo should take a little teaspoon full of hush.” Thibodaux leaned forward, big arms resting on his knees. “I want to hear your joke, cheri.”
“Me too,” Jericho said.
“Okay.” Aleksandra sat up a little straighter. The pout left as quickly as it had come. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson go to camp in the desert,” she began. Quinn couldn’t help but notice how her green eyes caught the dancing light of the fire. “They have a good meal and go to sleep. In the middle of the night Holmes nudges the doctor awake. ‘Look at the sky, Watson, and tell me what you see.’ Watson looks up and says: ‘I see millions and millions of stars.’ ‘And what does that tell you?’ Sherlock asks. ‘Well,’ Watson answers, ‘astronomically I see there are millions of galaxies and infer that there are billions of planets. Astrologically, I see that Saturn is in Leo. Meteorologically, I deduce from the lack of clouds that we should have pleasant weather in the morning. Theologically, I observe that God is infinite and we are but tiny, insignificant specks… What do you deduce, Holmes?’ Sherlock shakes his head and says: ‘Watson, you idiot. Someone has stolen our tent!’ ”