“I can’t tell,” she said, turning just a little farther to get a better look. Her legs tensed again. Her arms squeezed a little tighter.
“I hear them,” she said at length, her voice ripped away by the wind.
Quinn rolled on more throttle, counter steering around a series of deep ruts, then bouncing through a foaming waterfall that sprayed across the entire roadway like a huge bathroom shower. His face stung from the chilly, liquefied air. He’d ridden enough in cold wind to know it would be completely numb in a matter of minutes.
Somewhere ahead was a man they had to catch or risk losing track of a nuclear bomb. Behind was a car full of Chechen terrorists. They were likely after the same bomb, but at this moment were bent on killing Aleksandra — and in a car with the stability of four wheels versus his two, Quinn stood zero chance of outrunning them.
“How many are in the car?” he yelled.
“Three.”
Quinn took a series of slow, rhythmic breaths, slowing his heart rate. His eyes scanned the road ahead, noting the angle of drop, the thick tangle of trees and bushes that grew on the cliff side. Rain and the fine spray of dense fog whipped at his unprotected face, popping against his thin plastic raincoat like firecrackers. A cold chill ran down both legs. He fought to keep from shivering so badly he’d upset the bike. In CRO training, he’d endured long soaks with his classmates in ice-filled water in order to induce hypothermia. A lifelong Alaskan, used to the cold more than most, his teeth had chattered so badly he’d thought they might shatter. Though it had been horrific at the time, he’d gone through it, and the training had taught him what to expect — to recognize the promptings of his body before he reached a point of no return. Wind and wet would sap his body of critical warmth and leave him unable to ride, let alone fight.
A hundred meters ahead the narrow road made a sharp bend to the right, putting them out of sight for a period of a few seconds even if the fog happened to thin.
Popping his neck from side to side, he worked to relax his shoulders, drawing on the warmth of Aleksandra’s body where she pressed against him. His hands clutched the grips like frozen claws. He made rhythmic fists, trying to work the blood back into them.
“We have to stop around that corner,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“Are you crazy?” Her breath buzzed directly into his ear. “They will be on top of us almost at once.”
He rolled his palm to give the little Yamaha as much gas as he dared, causing it to give a throaty moan as it dug into the muddy slop.
“We’d better hurry then,” he said through chattering teeth, as much to himself as Kanatova.
CHAPTER 53
Yesenia had scored him a more serviceable netting and Pollard lay on his cot and watched the mosquitos try to reach him. Outside the protective barrier, sitting cross-legged on the plywood floor of the metal hooch, the Indian girl looked at him with the adoration of a student with a teacher crush. She’d taken to wearing a green parrot feather in her hair and washing her face before she came to see him. During their conversations he’d let it slip that he held two doctoral degrees and from that moment on, she’d referred to him as Dr. Matt. She said little except when he spoke to her, but spent most days just sitting and watching him like some sort of rifle-wielding disciple.
At first he’d ignored her; then, instead of talking to himself as he worked, he began to bounce his ideas off her. But Zamora would arrive at any time and she did work for him, so he kept his present problem to himself.
What in the world had Marie been talking about? They didn’t have a cat. In fact, she knew he didn’t care for house pets at all. Still, their time on the video link was always limited, and Marie was smart enough not to waste it on mindless chatter. She had a reason for what she’d said. Miss Kitty was some sort of clue. He just had to get inside that brain of hers and figure out what it meant.
He replayed Marie’s exact words over and over in his head. “I left her in the kitchen,” she’d said. “And we don’t have anyone to check on her… ”
Yesenia shook him out of his daydream.
“Dr. Matt,” she said, toying with the iridescent green feather over her ear. The beauty of it stood out in stark contrast to the rifle across her lap. “Do you think it possible I could ever attend university?”
He rolled up on his side. The world was somehow softer and less intense when viewed through the mosquito netting. It was easy to imagine he was having a discussion with one of his students.
“Of course,” he said. “But you’d have to set new priorities. Leave all this behind.”
She hung her head, staring at the floor. “When my debt is paid,” she said.
“What debt?” Pollard sat up, parting the net, and moved to the edge of his cot.
Yesenia sighed deeply. “A man came to our village and offered my sister and me work in Cochabamba. Even though my family is very poor and my father wanted me to go, I saw this man for what he was and said no. My sister said yes. He took us both anyway. When we got to the city I saw they were going to take us to Brazil and I… how do you say it?”
“Killed him?” Pollard offered.
Yesenia gave a little chuckle and shook her head. “Oh, no, señor. I wish I had, but a man like that is not so easy to kill. I became more trouble than I was worth, stealing things from shops as we walked by, starting fights with tourists… you know, to annoy him. The one who runs Señor Zamora’s businesses in Bolivia paid my debt, but now I am indebted to him.”
“Wait,” Pollard said. “I don’t understand. What debt?”
“You know, my bus ticket, food and lodging each night. I got an infection the first month so I have the debt for medicine as well. It piles up, you know.”
Pollard threw up his hands. “Yesenia, you were kidnapped. There is no debt.”
“Someone paid for my food and medicine,” she said. “My sister wrote me a letter a few months ago. She says the worst thing about being a prostitute is that you are always sick and your debt grows every week.”
Pollard tried to calm his breathing, knowing full well his desire to beat these men to death showed clearly on his face. “May I ask how old your sister is?”
“She is eleven years,” Yesenia said, her small hands across the rifle in her lap. “I think that is much too young for such things, don’t you, Dr. Matt?”
Pollard shuddered. “Any age is too young for that, Yesenia.”
“It makes me feel guilty, but I am saved from… that — for the most part.” She gave a resigned shrug. “I can shoot and my English is good, so I have other uses — like guarding you. But still, I owe this man for the money he spent to buy my freedom.”
“That isn’t freedom,” Pollard said. Anger churned in his gut like an illness. “Being bought and sold.”
“I know,” she said. “But it is reality, and sometimes knowing what is real is the closest thing we have to being free, no?”
“I wish you were one of my students,” Pollard said.
“Maybe someday,” Yesenia said. “I often dream of paying my little sister’s debt so we can go to school together.” She wiped a tear from her eye with the heel of her hand. Her thumb was bound in grimy white tape to protect some jungle injury. “She is much prettier than me,” she sniffed. “Which I suppose is what saved me and got her where she is. I can still see her wearing stupid red lipstick with that stupid Hello Kitty purse, pretending to be a grown woman… ”
Pollard’s mind was already spinning. He’d figure out a way to help Yesenia and her poor sister in good time. But for now, she’d helped him.
He stood from his cot and strode quickly back and forth in front of the bomb. Yesenia didn’t protest when he stopped and kissed her on the top of her head.