NOTE: The following scenes are from the middle of the book. Rachel McCarthy, after seeing a magazine article about archaeologist Patrick Kerby, her old lover from her Peace Corps days, has come to Guatemala to find him. She hired ex-patriot bush pilot Alex Carpenter to fly her to the remote highlands. Unfortunately, the area was in the middle of a battle zone, and their plane was shot down by unknown men in uniform. As this scene opens, Alex and Rachel are running from soldiers who are looking for El Tigre, a rebel leader attacking government troops in the area. ~

They turned as one and dashed off the trail into the forest with Rachel in the lead. Excited shouts followed their crashing footsteps through the trees. After several tense seconds of running, Rachel spotted a thick tangle of bushes with an animal tunnel leading into it. She gestured for Alex to crawl inside. He shook his head, refusing.

What? The idiot! She put a hand on his back and shoved him toward the hole. He again shook his head and made a snakelike motion with his good arm. The shouting came closer.

Pulling him close, she hissed, "Are you crazy? You're about to be riddled with bullets, and you're worried about a measly snake?"

She dove for the entrance and scrambled inside the thicket. Under the cover of the thick brush, the light was dim. Rachel crawled as far as she could and then pulled her legs up into a ball, trying to make herself as small as possible. Alex crawled right behind her, more awkwardly, hampered by his sling. Suddenly his forward progress stopped. His eyes widened and he clawed at the ground with his free hand as he was dragged backward out of the thicket.

He managed to whisper, "It's been swell…" before he disappeared.

                                                                                         ~~~

Rachel, now alone in the thicket, bit her nails as she listened to the argument in Spanish outside. Then she heard scrabbling noises nearby. Inside the thicket. Behind her. She whirled around. In the dim light she could barely make out a pointed nose, shiny button eyes, and black-and-white markings. Then the skunk turned its backside to her and lifted its tail.

Pure reflex made her explode backward out of the thicket, shadowed by a mist of skunk spray. A soldier grabbed her by her knapsack strap, then, with a show of disgust, pushed her down onto the ground away from him. The sharp edges of something inside her pack dug into her kidneys as she landed hard on her back.

Two pimple-faced teenage soldiers held Alex between them. A third pointed a rifle at his head. His arm had been pulled out of the sling and his expression was a tortured mix of pain and anxiety. His pistol now rested in the waistband of one of the young soldiers. A fourth searched through Alex's backpack.

The fifth boy soldier pointed his rifle at Rachel on the ground with one hand as he held his nose with the other. She could barely see him through the flow of tears. Who knew skunk spray burned as badly as tear gas? All seven of them coughed and wiped their burning eyes.

"You've endeared yourself to these guys now for sure," Alex carped between coughs.

She sat up. Her ribs hurt. Her kidneys hurt. "Oh, shut up! You were a big help!" She imitated his snake motion with one hand. Alex rolled his eyes.

"Cállate!" The soldier in front of Rachel jabbed his rifle barrel into her shoulder, and she gasped and shut up.

The soldiers on either side of Alex jerked his arms back. His face went white with pain.

"El Tigre," another shouted at him. "Dónde está El Tigre?"

Rachel told the soldiers she and Alex were foreigners. "Somos estranjeros—americanos."

"Yeah, Americans," Alex rephrased. "You hear? We're Americans."

That seemed to piss them off even more. The soldiers tied Alex's arms behind his back with a piece of cord from his own backpack. Rachel gritted her teeth, imagining the pain that caused him. Then another soldier marched forward, jerked Rachel off the ground by her knapsack strap and then ripped the knapsack from her back. Next, her arms were also bound with rough cord and she was tied with a longer rope to Alex. It was small comfort to realize that they weren't going to be killed right away.

The soldiers marched them down the trail, Alex in front. Rachel trotted close behind to keep the rope that joined them slack. She stumbled a couple of times, jerking the rope linked to Alex's bound arms. He yelped in pain.

"Sorry," she rasped. Her mouth was so dry. Would there be water at the end of this trek? If not, she'd rather be shot right now. Two days ago she'd been in Seattle, safe and sound. Well, actually, she'd been teasing her husband and his lover with a rather large knife, but at least she hadn't been some sort of prisoner of war. And now she had dragged Alex Carpenter into this morass as well. This was definitely not the way she'd pictured this trek down the road less traveled. How could everything have gone so wrong?

The trail led through increasingly rocky territory. Some stones showed rough carvings—Rachel recognized them as weathered Mayan pictographs. Their party passed small heaps of rocks, mostly obscured by the nets of green vines that eventually swallowed everything in the tropics. After what seemed like hours, she and Alex were marched into a clearing. Among the forest on the fringes were thatched huts, and to one side, a military tent camp. A medium-sized tree stood in the center of the clearing.

The soldiers tied her and Alex to the tree, their backs against the trunk. The young soldier that tied her took advantage of the situation to squeeze her breast. Then he pursed his lips close to her face, making kissing noises. She turned her head away in disgust. His comrades chortled, and the soldiers disappeared into the camp, laughing.

Alex groaned. "I hope this is the end of the road and not just a rest stop."

"Aren't they going to give us any water?" Rachel whined. "I'm so tired. They might as well shoot me now."

"They probably will, after they've had a drink or two."

"You're a ray of sunshine." Her voice was hoarse.

His voice was rough too, as he said, "Having my plane shot down in the jungle and being captured by gun-toting teenagers does tend to make me a little pessimistic, I guess. Not to mention being tied up with a skunk."

In summary, it did sound bad. At least she could do something about the last part. "It mostly got my boots. Maybe I can get them off."

Glad to have something useful to do, she worked off one boot and sock, grimacing as she tweaked her sore ankle. She kicked, sending the boot in an arc sideways across the clearing. It landed in the dirt several yards away. She had more trouble working off the other boot with her bare foot. Finally, using her toes, she flung that boot as far away as she could.

Exhausted, she leaned her head against the tree trunk. "Is that better?"

"I suppose. Now please stop moving the damn rope."

"Sorry."

A scruffy-looking dog emerged from the woods to sniff one of her discarded boots. They watched as he lifted a leg and peed on it.

"That's probably symbolic," Alex said. "A representation of our fate."

The dog investigated the other boot. After sticking his nose inside, he picked it up and carried it off into the woods.

"How would you interpret that?" she asked. "We'll be rescued by an unlikely hero?"

Alex snorted, but said nothing.

Rachel moved her tongue around inside her mouth, trying to work up some saliva. Her mind couldn't quite grasp the situation; it felt like she'd stumbled into a bad movie. "You don't really think they'll kill us, do you?" she asked. It was just too much. This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen in the modern world. "I can't believe that I came all the way to Guatemala to get shot."

"That's probably what everyone says before they get blown away."

"These guys looked Mayan to me. They've got to be the good guys, the insurgentes. Freedom fighters."

"Have you been watching the propaganda channel back home?" He coughed briefly, then cleared his throat and continued. "Everyone in Guatemala looks Mayan. They all get their uniforms from the same surplus store. If they're feds, they'll assume we're spies. If they're insurgentes, we're in even more trouble. Washington supported the federales for decades. And you did remind them that we're Americans."

"Crap." Now they were going to be blamed for whatever the CIA was up to?

"It really doesn't matter which side they're on," he said mournfully. "It'll be a fitting end to my life—killed by unknown military personnel for no particular reason while doing nothing important."

"Thanks a bunch." He did have a point, though. What had she been thinking to fly down here on a whim?

"You know what I mean." He sounded weary.

"Yeah, I suppose I do." She wanted to curl up and sleep right now. But it was hard to do either while tied to the tree.

"Here we go again," Alex moaned.

Two soldiers approached, accompanied by a man with bars on the shoulders of his uniform. He strode up to Rachel, bent, and slapped her hard. Her teeth sliced into the inside of her cheek. Burning brands from four fingers stung her face after he pulled his hand back.

"Donde estáa El Tigre?" he shouted in her face. His breath smelled of beer.

"I don't know!" she shouted back, tasting blood pooling beneath her tongue. "No seé nada!"

"Leave her alone!" Alex yelled from the other side of the tree.

The Captain motioned for a soldier to untie her. As soon as her hands were freed, the captain dragged her to her feet. When she was upright, he slapped her again, so hard her eyes watered and her ears rang. "Dónde está El Tigre?"

"No sé nada!" she repeated. "I'm an American. Please don't…" The soldiers dragged her away from Alex. She struggled, pulling back, trying to kick them. She couldn't let them separate her from Alex. "No! No, please!" she shouted.

"Stop!" Alex shouted. "Let her go, and I'll tell you everything I know about El Tigre."

They jerked her off her feet and dragged her toward the tent encampment. Her bare feet raked painfully across the stony ground. Blood ran from her mouth over her lower lip and onto her tee shirt. Where were they taking her? How many would rape her before they killed her? Alarm bells were shrieking inside her head, but she couldn't force a sound out of her mouth. She was hyperventilating; she couldn't get her breath. She hoped she would pass out before the real torture began.

Before they reached the tent encampment, a man barred their way. The soldiers paused, and Rachel managed to pull her feet beneath her again.

"What's going on here, Capitán Juarez?" the man said in Spanish. He wore stained khakis and a floppy brimmed hat. His voice was familiar. Could it be? She sucked a drip of blood from her lip.

The Captain pointed to Rachel and then to Alex as he spoke in Spanish. "They're Americans. You will translate."

"I will do what I can."

She knew that voice! Rachel jerked her arms out of the soldiers' grip, managing to knee one soldier hard in the groin as she twisted between them. The youth suddenly released his grip and staggered backward, swearing. The Captain and the civilian laughed as Rachel fell to one knee, but staggered back up again, ready to fight. The man removed his hat, revealing his handsome weathered face.

"Patrick!" Rachel yelped.

                                                                                        ~~~

 Alex watched as Rachel ran to the blond man and threw her arms around his neck. That had to be Dr. Kerby. Halleluiah. This job might not end in a shallow grave after all. He couldn't wait to be untied. The pain in his arm had diminished from the original agony down to a throbbing ache, but now he couldn't feel his right hand, which couldn't be good.

But then Kerby pushed Rachel away, his nose wrinkling as he took in her smell. Frowning, he replaced his hat and then examined her from arm's length. Crap. This was clearly not the business meeting Rachel had led him to expect when she hired him to fly her here. What else had she lied to him about?

A soldier stuck a rifle barrel between Rachel and Kerby, aiming directly at her nose. Alex held his breath. If this Kerby was a friend of hers, why didn't he order the soldier to put down the gun? From this distance, Alex couldn't read Kerby's expression under the wide-brimmed hat. Rachel brazenly stared down the rifle barrel for a second. Then she turned back to Kerby and gripped a handful of his shirt, pleading, "Patrick! It's me!"

The closest soldier grabbed Rachel's arm to pull her away. She held tightly onto Kerby's shirt. "Patrick! It's me, Rachel! Rachel! The Peace Corps—remember? Pat! Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

What? Some sort of secret code? She was the most unexpected, unpredictable woman he'd ever met. Likely the most dangerous, too. He wondered about the 'sort of' husband she'd left back in the States—was she Bonnie to her husband's Clyde? Or had she left him dead on the floor of their bedroom?

Finally, recognition crossed Kerby's face. "Stanley? … Rachel?" he stammered.

Thank god. "Yes, Rachel!" she echoed.

The soldier released her arm and backed off, but continued to train his gun on her. Rachel let go of Kerby's shirt, stroked her hands over her sweat-soaked clothing and tried in vain to run her fingers through her wild hair, which was tangled with dead leaves and bits of sticks from the skunk thicket. Alex couldn't believe his eyes; the woman was filthy and stank to high heaven, and she was trying to flirt with the man. He had to give her credit for her optimism.

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