wasn’t screaming in hysterics.
Tyler grabbed her arm and yanked her around. The binoculars tumbled out of her hand and bounced with a clank off the instrument panel to fall on the floor near her feet.
She stared at him like he was mad. “What is wrong with you?”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“What?”
“Come on, princess, spill.”
Realization dawned. Marisa’s fingers curled against her palms, wishing that they were clawing out his eyes, and the strength of that desire horrified her to her soul. “You think I had something to do with this?” She yanked against his grip, but he merely tightened his fingers. “Let me go!”
“Tell me, Marisa. You know so much about la Fortuna. Maybe you’re already one of the El Jefe whores. They’d consider you expendable to keep me from getting to Westin.”
She saw red. Literally saw a haze of it come over her vision. Gerald had called her a whore. He’d been wrong, too. “You are vile,” she snapped, and yanked again at her arm. She succeeded in breaking from his hold only because he suddenly turned back and had both hands on the stick as he crooned—there was no other word for it but crooned—to the plane.
It chugged, it jerked, it shuddered.
Then all was silent.
The wicked-looking prop slowed until it turned lackadaisically, like some exotic wind decoration.
Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.
She could hear Tyler’s breath.
She stared at the prop, wishing with everything inside her that it would turn, whip into the revolutions that were so fast, they seemed invisible. Wishing she was once again near deafened by the hum of the engine that could be felt all around them.
But nothing.
She swallowed, not daring to look at Tyler, because if she did, this would all seem too real, too desperate.
Then she realized it wasn’t really all that silent, after all. And she did look across at Tyler.
The ominous sound of wind rushing outside the plane grew to a roar as the plane bulleted through the sky with no power and only a grim-faced Tyler at the controls.
She stared again out the nose of the plane, seeing the damage, feeling dizzy. “We’re going to crash,” she said faintly. All she’d wanted was to undo the damage that had been set into motion by her leaving Mezcaya. Was this, then, to be her final punishment?
“We’re not going to crash,” Tyler gritted beside her, as if by willpower alone he could prevent that from happening.
She looked at him, saw the tendons in his arms stand out as he struggled with the controls, the sheen of sweat on his face. “I didn’t do this to us,” she whispered.
“You better hope to hell I don’t find out differently, or I’ll finish off the job that shooter didn’t.”
She believed him.
Tyler didn’t have time to worry about Marisa’s pale face or the way she was staring out the window. There was no mistaking the abject terror in her face, whether she knew about the attack beforehand, or not.
He needed a place to land and he needed it yesterday. Had El Jefe somehow tracked them? Or was this an act by one of the natives, the ones who were determined to protect their way of life even if that meant shooting at a suspicious plane circling over their territory?
They were losing altitude. He’d been heading back toward the river, and he could just spot it in the distance. If he could just coax a few more…
“Brace yourself,” he ordered.
And then they were tearing through the trees, heavy branches crashing against them, toppling over beneath them. He barely had time to cover his own face with his arms after they cleared the rest of the trees and headed straight into the river.
Marisa screamed.
Water splashed up and over the nose of the plane.
Eerie moans filled the air and metal screamed as its momentum was abruptly stopped.
Marisa and Tyler, strapped in their safety harnesses, bounced around like rag dolls in the grip of a rambunctious, cartwheeling child.
Cargo broke free, tumbling, bouncing, breaking.
Then all motion ceased, jerked to a cruel, bone-bruising stop as the plane settled, tilting crazily against some immovable force.
Dazed, Tyler gingerly shook his head. He realized water was lapping higher and higher against the side of the plane. He ripped off his harness and leaned toward Marisa, gently tipping back her limp head. She’d struck something when they’d hit. Her forehead was bleeding. But she was breathing. And when he said her name, her mouth moved in reply.
Then her eyes opened slowly and stared, glassy, at him. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured.
Later, he might wonder over the relief he felt. But for now he didn’t have time. “So are you,” he said, and pushed himself painfully out of the cockpit. “We’ve gotta get out of here before the plane floods.” He kicked her briefcase out of the way as he made his way to the passenger door. It was buckled, and no amount of muscle would get it open.
He headed through the mess of supplies for the cargo door toward the rear of the plane. That opened, but it also let in a wave of cold water. He swore. “Marisa!”
Marisa had stumbled out of the cockpit behind him. “Tell me what to do.” She still looked unsteady.
“Get that duffel there. The black one. Grab anything you can carry from the box underneath it.”
He stepped into the swirling water, and rapidly inflated the Zodiac. They’d hit a sandbar. It was both a blessing and a curse, because, though it gave them a bit of dry ground to work with, it had also torn off the right wing of his plane.
Marisa, arms full, followed him, and he helped her from the plane, onto the bar, holding the cargo high, out of the water. “Stay there.”
She nodded, looking ill. He wasn’t surprised when her legs gave out, and he caught her before she fell back into the swirling river. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her hand pressed to her forehead. “I’m so dizzy.”
He grabbed the duffel and stuffed it behind her. “Lean against that. And don’t let go. Can you swim?”
Marisa nodded weakly and sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to actually do so. Every movement made her head swim. She curled her fingers into the black canvas of the bag with a death grip and drew her legs up the sandy surface, out of the water.
They’d crashed.
But they weren’t dead.
She closed her eyes, aware of Tyler’s rapid movements as he went back and forth between the boat he’d inflated and the plane.
Then he was talking to her, telling her to get in the small boat. She moved, feeling clumsy, and he ended up just lifting her over the side, tossing the duffel in after her.
She was shivering. The air felt colder than it ought to have for February. If she could just get warm…
Her fingers closed on the duffel and she fumbled for the zipper. He probably had clothes inside—
“What the hell are you doing?” He jerked the bag out of her hands and she’d have pitched forward onto her nose if he hadn’t planted a hard hand on her shoulder first. “Stay out of there.” He shoved the duffel as far away from her as it could go. Which wasn’t far.
She didn’t want to cry. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. “I’m cold.”
“You’re soaking wet. We both are. That, plus a little shock.” He shook his head