The Edge

Chapter Twenty-Seven

We reached the airstrip at about five-thirty in the morning, according to the watch I'd taken from Molinas. The half-moon was fading quickly, but still hanging on, and behind it a few scattered stars dotted the gray sky. The mountains in the distance looked like ghosts, stretched up into broad sword shapes, others hunched over, all of them unearthly in the vague dawn light. There would soon be enough light to use the airstrip. Three days ago, I thought, we were in Edgerton, Oregon, buying sandwiches from Grace's Deli.

The silence was profound, just the crunch of our boots on the rocky.ground. The rain forest began not a hundred yards to our left, stretching up the flank of the distant eastern mountains. The compound was directly behind us. If anyone was following us, they were staying out of sight. I thought of snipers and moved closer to Molinas. I hoped we covered the others' backs well enough so if there were snipers, they'd be afraid to shoot for fear of hitting Molinas.

When we reached the edge of the airstrip, the sky was a soft gray, with strips of pink streaking to the east. There was no cover. We crouched down against the stark landscape, still too well silhouetted for anyone with a gun.

Savich turned, a black eyebrow raised. "The rain forest begins right over there? Yet it's hot and barren here. How can that be?"

"It's called deforestation," Molinas said. "The people are very poor."

"Mac and I were already in there," Laura said. "It's incredibly beautiful but the humidity strangles you, and there are so many creatures you can hear but can't see, it's also terrifying. I'm grateful we don't have to go back in."

Sherlock laughed, shaky, but it was a real laugh. "I think I just need to kill Marlin again. I can hear his laughter, his shouting. I'm just going to kill him. I'll see if he can come back from the dead a second time."

"Yes, kill him," Savich said, looking directly into her eyes. "Kill him again, Sherlock. You're the only one who can do it. You did it before, you can do it again. Kill him and kick him a couple of times, then come back to me and stay. I need you here."

"I need you too, Dillon," she said and closed her eyes. The look on Savich's face was terrifying. I gripped his shoulder.

It was in that moment that I knew Jilly had been taking the drug when she went over the cliff. I'd been there with her and the drug had driven her mad, just like Sherlock. When she'd discovered Laura was a DEA agent, that she'd been betrayed, she'd been haunted by Laura in her mind. She hadn't been able to bear it. And that's why she'd driven her Porsche off the cliff.

I looked over at Laura. She was still staring toward the eastern mountains, not moving, just staring. I wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but there was something about the way she was focused on those mountains, her silence, that kept me quiet. Laura had it together. She was fine. I smiled at her, knowing in my gut that this woman I'd known for less than a week would decide that living with me was better than living without me.

We tried to limit our risks. We sat closely pressed together, Molinas facing back toward the compound.

I didn't think any of his men could have gotten beyond us, but I couldn't be sure.

A small plane was coming in, the buzz of its engine sounding rough. I saw Savich frowning at that sound, looking toward the mountains. In a couple of minutes, a sleek little Cessna 310 appeared over the top of the closest peak, banked sharply, and started in to land, the sunrise a halo around it.

I didn't like the sound it was making-the engines sputtering, missing, as if barely hanging on.

Had Molinas screwed us?

I was turning to him when suddenly two helicopters burst over the mountains.

"My God," Savich said, shading his eyes, "they're McDonnell Douglas-Apaches, AH-64 Apaches.

They're ours. They've got an M23 °Chain Gun, Hellfire missiles, and a stinger. Down! Everybody, DOWN!"

We all hit the ground. In a blink one of the Apaches fired on the Cessna. The small plane sputtered above the ground. I saw two men inside, one of them screaming. I watched the plane explode, showering debris into the dawn sky. Twisting shards of metal, parts of the engine, the seats, one of them holding what had been a man still strapped in, scattered over the airstrip and the land around it. A part of a wing crashed into the ground not twenty feet from us.

"Jesus," Savich said. "Good old USA Apaches. What the hell are they doing here?"

"Somehow they must have found out where we were." Laura was yelling at the Apaches, waving her arms. I held Molinas close.

I looked up at the helicopters. They came closer and hovered, making no move to land.

Oh, God. "Laura," I shouted, "get away from there! Run!"

Without warning, they fired on us.

"The rain forest!" I grabbed Molinas and shoved him ahead of me. They came around again, firing, the hail of bullets kicking up dirt all around us. We made the rain forest, barely. Then I realized the last thing we needed was Molinas holding us back. He'd betrayed us.

I jerked him around and yelled in his face, "You damned bastard!"

"I didn't betray you." He was panting now. "You saw them. They shot down the Cessna. One of my men must have radioed Del Cabrizo and told him you were escaping. The cartel ordered it. I didn't."

"That makes me feel a whole lot better," I said. "Well, you can stay and talk to him about it." I shoved him down behind a tree, took off his belt, and tied his hands behind him to the skinny tree. I ripped off his very nice Italian silk shirt and stuffed it into his mouth, tying the rest behind his head.

"You'd better pray they don't think you're disposable. That's about the only thing that would save both of you."

I turned away from him and shouted, "Savich, we're heading north. Keep going, but veer to your left, to the west." Thank God it was light enough now to see where we were going. Northwest, we had to go northwest. Molina's soldiers would be searching for him and then come after us.

Savich nodded, holding Sherlock close. I looked at Laura, wondering why she hadn't come to help me.

She was standing about ten feet from me, not moving. I watched her weave where she stood, then drop one of the AK-47s.

"Laura?"

I heard the Apaches overhead, incredibly loud, heard their automatic weapons firing into the forest.

Chances were that only an incredibly lucky shot would find us through that thick, nearly impenetrable canopy overhead. But given how our luck had gone so far, I didn't want to take any chances.

"Laura?" I yelled again. "Come on! We've got to hurry. I'll take the other weapon. What the hell's wrong?" She didn't answer. I saw her lean back against a tree, gripping her shoulder.

"Laura?"

"Just a minute, Mac." Her eyes were closed, her teeth gritted.

Oh, God, she'd been hit. The guns kept sounding overhead, the bullets smashing down through the foliage. We were too close to the edge of the rain forest. We had to go deeper. Without a word, I pulled her hand away from her shoulder. "It went through," she said, and I saw she was right after I'd opened her shirt.

"Hold still." I unbuttoned my fatigue shirt and jerked it off. At least it wasn't as sweaty as my undershirt. I wrapped it as best I could over the wound, tying it under her breasts.

It was still bleeding. She was trembling. Her blood streaked over my hands. "Can you hang on for a while?"

She gave me a smile that made me want to cry and said, "I'm DEA. Of course I can hang on."

I smiled at her as I rebuttoned her shirt, picked up both AK-47s, and hoisted her over my shoulder.

"Mac, no, I can walk."

"It's time for the DEA agent to keep her mouth shut," I said, and to Savich, who'd turned back, "Laura's been shot. It's clean, through the upper shoulder. But we've got to take care of it, we've-"

An Apache was coming in fast and hovered right over us. It sounded muffled through all the greenery overhead, but it was close, too close. If it fired downward, it could hit us.

I laid Laura on the floor of the forest, cupped her cheek with my palm, and said, "Don't move, I'll be right back. I'm going to get you a first-aid kit and then I'm going to play doctor."

She looked at me like the drug had captured my brain again. I just smiled at her, grabbed one of the AK-47s, and ran for a small, light-filled clearing just inside the forest belt. I looked up. An Apache was hovering not twenty yards overhead, its rotor blades fanning the thick upper canopy of the rain forest. I heard birds screeching, heard their wings flapping madly to escape. It was just that the growth was so thick off to my left that I couldn't see them. I could make out a man staring downward with binoculars.

"Hey, you bastards!" I fired upward. When I cleared the magazine, I pulled it out and shoved another in, and waited. I needed them closer, and lower. The Apache weaved, plunging side to side. Yes, I thought, you've seen me. Now, come and get me. I could hear a man yelling. They were right over me now. I fired off another twelve rounds, directly into the gut of the helicopter.

I could see the pilot fighting the controls, trying to regain control. I heard the other man yell. Then, like it was released from a slingshot, the Apache rose straight up and then dipped sharply to the left. I fired another half-dozen rounds. It trembled, the rotor grinding, those amazing General Electric turboshafts sputtering, dying now from all the damage my bullets had caused. The Apache lurched and went straight up again, its nose aimed at the sky. It stopped, trembled some more, turned nose toward the ground, and came down fast. I heard the two men screaming.

The helicopter plunged into the rain forest, slashing through leaves and trees. I heard a loud ripping sound- its rotor being torn off. Then silence. I heard the other helicopter, but it wasn't close. Wouldn't it come over us like this one had? Because they saw it go down?

I waited a moment, then ran as fast as I could to where the helicopter lay, nose buried some two feet into the ground, its rotor broken off halfway down, gleaming sharp blade edges embedded in the foliage.

Monkeys shrieked overhead. I saw several of them leaping from tree to tree some six feet above my head. I knew the helicopter could explode, but I had to get my hands on a first-aid kit. I couldn't face the thought of Laura wounded in this living hellhole without any medical supplies.

The gunner and the pilot were both dead. They were wearing fatigues, like the rest of Molinas's men.

They were in an American helicopter but they surely weren't Americans. They were probably Del Cabrizo's men, sent to take us out, just as Molinas had said.

To my relief, I found the first-aid kit shoved beneath the pilot's seat. On the back of the pilot's chair, to my amazement, were half a dozen containers of bottled water in a net fastened to a strap. There were several blankets strewn over the backseat. I grabbed them up, smelling the fresh, thick scent of sex. Now I knew what these guys had been doing before they'd taken off.

I unfastened the net that held the water from the strap, threw the blankets over my shoulder, and shouting like a madman, I ran back.

We were still too close to the edge of the rain forest. I didn't hear anyone coming, didn't hear the other Apache. But it was stupid to take any chances.

"My God," Savich said. "You've got your first-aid kit, and water. I'm going to make sure you get a promotion and a raise, Mac."

"Can you hold out a bit longer?" I said, coming down to my knees beside Laura.

"Yes, but then I want to relax by the pool with a good book."

"You got it. Let's see what we've got in here. There should be some pain pills to help take the edge off." I found them and gave her three, and all the water she wanted from one of the bottles. Savich had gotten the bleeding stopped, thank God. It was as good as we could do for the moment. I rose quickly. "Let's go northwest about fifty more yards, then I'll backtrack and erase our tracks. The good Lord is looking out for us, guys. Just look at all this bottled water. And it isn't even drugged."

Another fifteen feet ahead and we couldn't get through the twisted and intertwined vines and trees. It was a wall of green. The first time we'd been helpless, but this time we had the machete Laura had taken.

I unfastened it from her belt, kissed her cheek. "You're brilliant," I said. "I can't promise anything, but it seems to me that just maybe you've got the makings of an FBI agent."

"You really think so?" She managed a smile. Laura had to walk since I was carrying the water and the first-aid kit and one AK-47 and hacking our way through the dense green foliage. So much of it. I held her up, my arm around her waist. "You're doing great, kiddo. Just hang in there. Another fifteen steps and we'll rest. That's good Laura, just ten more steps." I took another whack at the twisted vines in front of us. 'The sucker's nice and sharp, thank God."

"I'd rather have a margarita, Mac."

"Me too, but I'd rather know for sure where we are. I should have wrung that out of Molinas."

"He got us out of there. We're in Colombia, Mac. We have to be."

I heard Sherlock moan, heard Savich's low voice, but I couldn't make out his words.

He hefted Sherlock over his shoulder and took the machete from me. I was grateful. We kept going, at least another fifty steps. It was Savich who pulled up. He was panting hard. He gently eased Sherlock to the ground and balanced the big machete and an AK-47 against a tree trunk beside her.

"Mac, enough. I'm beat for the moment. Spread out those blankets and let's lay our patients on them.

Shush, Sherlock, it's okay."

Sherlock opened her eyes and looked over at me, at the AK-47s I was laying next to Savich. The only thing was, Sherlock wasn't behind those eyes. I looked away, I just couldn't stand it. I wished I'd killed Molinas.

I leaned Laura against a tree, unwrapped the blankets from around her, and spread them out. I eased her down onto her back. Her eyes were nearly black with pain.

I leaned down and kissed her dry mouth. "Now, you just lie here, make Savich give you some water." I unfolded the other two blankets that I'd been carrying over my shoulder and spread them out over her. I said to Savich, "We've been using the machete, but maybe there's something I can do to lessen their chances of tracking us." Before I left I gave Laura another pain pill.

When I returned some five minutes later, I heard Laura whisper, "I'm sorry, really sorry. I should have dodged better. Maybe I'll be demoted to the FBI."

"You'd have to do something a lot worse than dodge the wrong way to be consigned with the likes of us," Savich said. "Rest now, Laura."

"And hold still," I said. I flipped up the metal clip on the first-aid kit. "I'm going to play doctor now." I looked through the medical supplies. Alcohol, an oral antibiotic, aspirin, gauze, bandages, tape, needles, matches, thread, the pain pills-thank God the helicopter hadn't exploded. I had a feeling this was the luckiest find I'd ever make in my life. After Laura.

Laura focused her eyes on my face. "We could be in Thailand right now. Any place there's a jungle."

"Not with a town called Dos Brazos," I said. "Hold still and swallow these pills. It's an antibiotic and just one more pain pill." I waited a couple of minutes for the meds to start taking hold, then stripped her shoulder down and examined the wound. It was just a small hole in the front, sluggishly oozing blood.

"Hold still," I said again. I wet one of the bandages with alcohol and pressed it against the wound.

Laura didn't make a sound. Her eyes were tightly closed. She was biting her lower lip. "It's all right. I'm not in shock, at least not now. You don't have to look at me like that. I was shot two years ago. I know what shock feels like. Really, it isn't bad this time."

"Where were you shot?" I asked her.

"In my right thigh."

I could only shake my head. "You're doing really good. Don't move." I lifted her up and looked at the exit wound. It was raw and big and covered with shredded, bloody flesh and material from her fatigue shirt.

I said, "I can't put stitches in to close the wound, Laura. There's just no way to get the wound sterile. The chances are the wound would get infected and that would be worse. So I'll just clean it and lay a bandage over it. We'll change the bandage every day. Okay?"

"Yes. I hate needles."

I laid a cloth soaked with alcohol over the wound in her back and gently cleaned the area as best I could.

There was an antibiotic ointment, and I smoothed it on. Savich unwrapped a sterilized square of gauze and handed it to me. I gently removed the alcohol pad and pressed the gauze over the wound and pressed strips of adhesive bandage over it.

I repeated the procedure on the small entry wound. I washed the blood off her breast. The dried blood was dark red, nearly black now against her white flesh. I hated it.

I wrapped her shoulder, tying the thick bandage beneath her breasts. I'd done all I could think of. I'd done the best I could.

"Hey, Sherlock, you still there, sweetheart?"

"I'm here, Dillon."

"Do you think we're doing things okay here? Concentrate, Sherlock. You wanted to do it, and it's time.

Talk to me."

"I'm here," she said in a thin, nearly transparent voice. "I'm concentrating really hard."

After a few minutes, I asked Laura if it still hurt.

"Just a bit," she said, and I believed her. She sounded vague and pleasantly surprised. "Isn't it wonderful how that stuff works? No, it isn't too bad."