“I will make him pay, Misha,” she whispered, huge tears dripping from the end of her nose and landing with loud plops on her sleeping bag. Chiding herself for such rampant emotion, she sniffed, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand.
She stuffed the dagger under her belt at the small of her back and press checked her H&K one last time, reassuring herself that there was a round in the chamber. Satisfied that she was ready to wreak havoc on the murderous thug with the flat nose and crooked lip, she listened until she heard the sound of Quinn’s rhythmic breathing coming from the tent beside her. She only had to wait a few moments for a scooter to buzz past and used the sound to cover the noise as she unzipped her tent and crept into the night.
CHAPTER 45
Marie woke from a fitful sleep to the sensation of breathing on her neck. Even her nightmares were welcome relief from her actual circumstances, and she clenched her eyes shut, afraid to open them until she heard the familiar sound of Simon’s cooing.
Pete sagged in the recliner, snoring loudly with a leg thrown over one arm of the chair. Lourdes was in the back bedroom. The buzz of her voice carried down the hall as she talked to her foul boyfriend on the computer.
Simon cooed again in her ear.
Fully awake now, she wiped the grit out of her eyes and licked dry lips. She needed some water but didn’t want to risk waking Pete.
“What have you got there?” she whispered, looking down at Simon’s hand. Her heart stopped in her chest when she realized what it was.
He must have wandered over to Pete’s chair while they were both asleep and picked up his cell phone.
Marie tugged on the phone, her brain spinning as she tried to figure out what to do. She could call the police but didn’t know where she was. Worse, on the outside chance that someone was able to find them, such a thing would surely get Matt killed.
Simon started to whimper. Fearful of waking Pete, she abandoned trying to take the phone for a moment while she thought. Matt might have something planned already. He was smart that way. Whatever she did, it had to involve him. But how?
“Hooray for Simon,” Marie whispered, praising him for getting the phone. Pete was no more than fifteen feet away so she kept her voice to a quiet hum. Every move she made seemed as loud as banging a string of metal cans. “Can Mama see?” She held out her hand for the phone. Mercifully, the baby gave it to her. “Hooray for Simon,” she whispered again.
Thankfully, Pete had not opted for a screen lock and she was able to access the camera with no problem. She turned the phone around and took a photograph of herself and Simon leaning against the wall.
Lourdes’s heavy footfalls pounded down the hall and Marie shoved the phone under her thigh. Pete stirred but didn’t wake up. Marie did not breathe until she heard the bathroom door shut, followed by the sound of Lourdes peeing.
Fingers trembling, Marie punched in the number she’d decided on and sent the photograph attached to a text message. As soon as it sent, she deleted the evidence of both text and photograph.
The toilet flushed an instant before Marie slid the phone across the floor below Pete’s dangling leg.
Lourdes stomped into the living room just an instant after Marie had tiptoed back across the room and collapsed on her lumpy mattress beside Simon. The horrible woman got herself a glass of water from the kitchen and stood wearing nothing but black panties and a T-shirt. One hand on a thick hip, she glared down at Marie while she downed the water in one long gulping swallow.
Lourdes wiped her mouth with her forearm and sniffed.
“Why are you so happy?” She asked.
Marie bowed her head. She was still shaking. “What do you mean?”
“You have hope. I can smell it,” Lourdes sneered. “I thought we talked about that.”
“I don’t,” Marie lied.
Lourdes stood for a long moment, blinking under the stark bangs of her Cleopatra haircut. Without warning she let loose a bone-chilling scream and threw her glass against the kitchen wall.
“Holy shit!” Pete fell out of the chair at the sound of the scream and shattering glass. He scrambled to his feet trying to make sense of what was going on.
Frightened by the sudden noises, Simon let out a screech of his own.
“Enough fun for now,” Lourdes said. “Go back to sleep.” She shot a hateful look at Marie. “Clean up that mess,” she said.
Pete reached to pick up his phone from where it lay on the floor and shoved it in his pocket without a second look. He suspected nothing. Marie had to fight the urge to smile. For the first time in days, she felt a tiny bit in control.
CHAPTER 46
“Monagas is gone,” Aleksandra said early the next morning. Her lips were drawn in a tight white line as she set her tray down on the long folding table under the dining tent. “I just heard it from one of his mechanics. Gone!” The sun was just coming up, but the last riders had left the starting line five minutes before.
Thibodaux looked up from his plate of eggs and buttered toast. “Gone?”
“That can’t be good,” Bo said from across the table.
“No,” Thibodaux said. “It’s not.” He reached for the iPhone in his shirt pocket. “You get Jericho on the horn and I’ll check on Zamora.”
Thibodaux pulled up his hacked link to the ASO tracking system just in time to see the GPS blip identifying Zamora’s bike veer off the designated course and turn east for the Iquique airport. In an unavoidable turn of events, Jericho had come in ahead of him the day before and had to leave the starting line earlier. He was going slow, feigning engine trouble, but was still ahead a half mile.
Thibodaux stood, twirling his hand overhead for the others to abandon their breakfast and follow him.
Bo handed him the phone as they ran toward the support truck.
Jericho tapped the Bluetooth receiver on the side of his helmet. “Go for Quinn,” he said. Without a face shield, the wind whirred in his helmet, but the earpiece made it possible to hear well enough.
“Turn around, l’ami,” Thibodaux said. “Zamora’s heading to the airport.”
Quinn tapped the brakes, feeling the bike’s knobby tires squirm on the cool pavement. If Thibodaux said to turn around, there was no point in second-guessing him.
“Monagas?” he asked.
“He was MIA as of early this morning, beb,” Thibodaux said. “Looks like they’re making a move. We’re on our way to the airport now.”
Quinn pulled over long enough to disable the KTM’s GPS locator system so the officials — and anyone else who might be watching — wouldn’t be able to track him. Race officials would call the IriTrack to check his safety soon enough, but he would tell them he’d had engine trouble. He didn’t want to withdraw until later, in case Zamora happened to check in later in the day.
Back aboard the bike, he flipped a quick U-turn and opened up the throttle, no longer fretting about babying the engine through the race. He made it to the tiny civil aviation airpark near Iquique’s Diego Aracena Airport less than five minutes later.
The KTM’s wheels crunched up on the gravel apron next to a young mechanic in greasy blue overalls wiping his hands on an even greasier rag. A twin-engine Cessna banked northeast over the rolling dunes of the Atacama Desert.
“Have you quit the race too, señor?” the mechanic asked, eyeing Quinn with an empathetic frown.
“I’m afraid so, amigo,” Quinn said. He saw Zamora’s Yamaha — a fifty-thousand-dollar motorcycle — abandoned, lying on its side next to a neatly painted tin hangar along the edge of the taxiway. “Bad transmission,” he lied. He nodded toward the twin-engine Cessna that grew smaller and smaller as it flew into the morning light. “What happened to my friend?”