feel better on the raft.”
The man started dry-heaving, and his friends continued to ridicule him.
Javier almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. There was nothing more emasculating than puking your guts out in a public toilet. He’d done it himself, several years ago, after drowning his sorrows at Hector Gonzales’s bachelor party. The next day Hector had married the woman Javier loved.
Wincing at the memory, he put on a pair of sturdy athletic socks and black canvas tennis shoes that were only half a size too large. The backpack also boasted a hat. A beanie, he believed it was called. Tugging it over his wet hair, he walked outside, bypassing the foolish young men. An area map was posted on an information board next to the restrooms. Warnings about bears and safety instructions appeared in several languages.
He studied the map, which indicated that he was at the Kaweah Campsite in Sierra National Park. Only one road led in and out of the park. Both the entrance and the exit were more than thirty miles away.
That was a problem.
Hitchhiking was common in Venezuela, where he was born, and in many of the other countries he’d visited. Here in the U.S., it was rare enough to attract the attention of the authorities. He needed another mode of transportation. He could continue walking, pay for a ride or steal a car. But what if the park exits were being monitored? Law enforcement officials might know about the crash already. His boss would definitely be looking for him.
A man in Javier’s profession couldn’t leave behind a million dollars’ worth of drugs—and a dead pilot—without consequences.
On the right side of the map, there was an advertisement for Kaweah Whitewater Adventures. A blue line marked Kaweah Campsite as the launch point. The tour stretched past the borders of the park, ending at Moraine Lake.
The river was another exit.
While he considered his options, the hecklers walked out of the men’s room. They hadn’t convinced their friend to come along. Javier gave them another quick once-over, recognizing the type. After leaving Venezuela, he’d honed his English in Costa Rica, which was popular with surfers and potheads.
“You guys going on the whitewater trip?” Javier asked.
“Yep.”
“I’ve always wanted to try that,” he said, falling into step beside them. One of the guys had short, spiky blond hair. The other had long brown hair like Jesus. Both appeared strong, probably from athletic pursuits, rather than hard labor. “How do I sign up?”
“You have to reserve in advance.”
“Oh.”
The longhair exchanged a shrewd glance with his buddy. “We could bring you along if you have enough cash.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred. It’s a three-day trip.”
Javier had enough money, but he didn’t want to appear overeager. He also suspected them of trying to hustle him. Who would pay so much money to get abused by a river? “I’ve got two fifty,” he said, lowering his voice. “And an ounce of weed.”
That perked them up. “What kind?”
“Chronic.”
The guys smiled at each other. “Let’s see it.”
Javier glanced around to make sure they were alone before showing his stash. Neither the pot nor the cash belonged to him, so it was no loss. The deal suited his acquaintances just fine. They became very friendly all of a sudden.
“I’m Caleb,” the long-haired guy said. “This is Ted.”
Javier shook their hands. “Jay Norton.”
Caleb and Ted debated over smoking a bowl right then and there, but decided against it because they were already late. Javier breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to stay alert, not get stoned with a couple of pendejos.
The rafting group was supposed to meet in the camp parking lot at eight. They hurried down the dirt road as a dark green sport utility van with Kaweah Adventures printed on the side was about to pull away.
“Hey,” Caleb yelled, waving his arms. “Wait up!”
The three of them jogged to the vehicle. “You just made it,” the driver said. “Hop in.”
Javier took off his backpack and climbed inside. The backseat was occupied by two short-haired women in their forties. A cute blonde sat in the middle. There was space available beside her, or next to the driver.
“Hello,” he said, choosing the blonde. “I’m Jay.”
She fluttered her lashes. “Faith.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.
Although he wanted to keep staring at her, because she was beautiful, he introduced himself to the women in back and nodded hello to the driver. When infiltrating a group, it was important to adopt their customs. Outdoor lovers were gregarious. They liked to hug strangers and bond with nature. He couldn’t be standoffish.
Caleb and Ted struck up a lively conversation, using a lot of terms Javier didn’t understand. Class Five, portage, PFDs.
He turned to the girl beside him, studying her with interest. She was wearing long shorts, a tank top and hiking boots. Her platinum-streaked hair was braided into two sections. She had a demure, fresh-scrubbed look, but she wasn’t a teenager. Her brown eyes twinkled with a sexy sort of mischief.
While he sized her up, she did the same to him.
Coño de la madre. If all female campers were this young and hot, he’d been missing out. “Faith,” he said, liking her name. “Where are you from?”
“L.A.”
City of angels. “You’re together?” he asked, indicating the women in back.
“No, I’m alone. My sister was supposed to come along, but she got called into work.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
She arched a brow. “You don’t look sorry.”
He wiped the grin off his face. “Is this your first time rafting?”
“Yes.”
“Mine, too.”
“Really? I thought this route was for experts.”
“Is it?” He glanced behind him for confirmation. “Are you ladies experts?”
“We’ve been around a few rivers,” the redhead said. Her name was Paula.
“Don’t worry,” Caleb said. “Ted and I have done some sixes and lived to tell the tale.” He launched into a boastful account of their accomplishments. Javier wasn’t impressed, but he believed that the guys knew how to paddle. Whether they stayed sober enough to do so safely was another question.
Faith didn’t seem as enthusiastic about rafting as the others. Maybe she was nervous. Javier wanted to promise he’d look out for her, which was strange. If anything, his presence in the group put everyone at risk.
And the less he said the better. He’d impersonated an American before and it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. His English was almost perfect, and he could mimic a Californian accent. He knew U.S. history. But there were gaps in his education. TV shows he hadn’t watched, rock stars he didn’t know, movies he’d never heard of.
Cultural references would trip him up every time.
They drove down a bumpy dirt road to an area called the put-in. As he climbed out of the van with Faith, he drew in a deep breath, amazed by the size of the river. At the campsite, the Kaweah had been a bubbling brook. This monster was immense, full of jagged rocks, with angry froth churning down the center.
Faith