“How much farther is it?” he asked Robert. His injured arm was throbbing with pain.
“Need a break?”
“No! I just want to get there.” He could only imagine the swarms of mosquitoes that would descend on them if they stopped.
“Mathilda! Billionaire needs a break,” Robert called.
Mathilda turned and hurried toward him. “Let’s switch for a while.” She tucked the machete under her arm while she dug around in her backpack. “You can have this,” she said as she pulled out a headlamp.
She tucked the strap around his head. Her nearness made him a little woozy, though maybe he was just woozy in general at this point. Were her eyes green? Or were they just reflecting the jungle?
She nudged him aside so she could take the handles of the backboard. Then she angled her body to offer him the handle of the machete.
“Just follow the trail.”
“There’s a trail?” He peered ahead into the dimness.
“Your feet will feel it. It’s not too much farther. The trail is more established at this point. Need some water?”
“Yes please.” His heartfelt response drew a smile from her.
“Side pocket of my backpack.”
He found the water, along with a plastic baggie of trail mix. “Is, uh, this up for grabs?”
“Help yourself. Just remember us at donation time.” She winked at him.
“Million-dollar trail mix, got it.”
“Oh, we don’t need that much. Fifty thousand dollars will keep us going.”
Good Lord. Lincoln Kerr had paid that much for one dinner with some CEOs he was trying to win over. That was pocket change for him.
The trail-clearing turned out to be much more fun than carrying the backboard, so long as he used his uninjured arm. He swung gleefully at every thick vine that tried to hit him in the face—and even won some of those battles. He lost a few, too, so by the time the trail widened into a clearing, he was sure his face was probably black and blue.
Whatever. It went with the whole plane-crash aesthetic.
He slashed aside the last branch that stood in his way and stepped into the clearing, ready to deal with whatever human interaction stood between him and a shower and a bed.
The encampment was a collection of wooden platforms with white canopy tents perched on them. Smaller tents were set up underneath the canopies. A larger canvas yurt seemed to be a central gathering place, along with an outdoor picnic table and a fire pit made from lava rocks. Lights were strung from the yurt to various trees around the perimeter. The hum of a generator mingled with the sounds of chatter.
“Wait…is this it?” He turned to face Mathilda and Robert. In the glare of his headlamp, he saw that she was sweating under the weight of the backboard. They were both moving more slowly than at the start of the journey, and he felt bad that he’d allowed her to take over the burden of carrying Lincoln.
“Sorry, we had to move out of the resort.” Mathilda tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Those pesky funding issues. Too bad, because we usually work out of the Four Seasons.”
“Okay, I get it, you can lay off the rich guy jokes,” he grumbled to himself. But just to himself. Right now, he wanted them to think he was rich, jokes included. More loudly, he said, “Please tell me there’s some kind of shower.”
“There’s some kind of shower,” Robert told him. “What kind, that’s another story.”
Rory stepped aside so they could take the lead, since he had no idea which tiny tent they should head for. As they entered the clearing, the beam of his headlamp played across a wooden sign that read, “Nahele Research Camp.”
Fancy name for such a barebones operation.
After a few more steps, he caught the smell of grilled meat, which made his mouth water. His last food had been many hours ago—not counting the million-dollar trail mix.
“Sasha,” Mathilda shouted as she and Robert carried Lincoln toward the canvas yurt. “We have a patient for you.” She looked over her shoulder at Rory. “You come too. She’ll need all the information you can give her about your pilot. If you have any.”
Oh boy. This could be trouble. Lincoln was pretty private about his medical history. He’d just have to suck it up and play the clueless, oblivious employer. That would be one more strike against him in Mathilda’s eyes.
