“This was what they referred to as a stalker. His job would be to follow me and report once a day. That means my flight is more of a nuisance to him than a risk.”
“Based on his last phone call, that gives us roughly twelve hours before someone even begins to think something’s wrong when he doesn’t check in,” Wes murmured.
“In theory, yes. Guillermo has two avenues when he’s after someone. This is his soft approach. Hard would be search and kill. So if he wanted me dead, he would have sent his second, Cesar.”
“Wouldn’t getting rid of you be better for him?” Cruz asked.
“Eventually, he’ll make a run at that. For right now, he’s hanging back and watching what I do. He has to be beyond pissed that I fooled him all these years. Multiply that times ten because I managed to escape his original plan for me, whatever that was.
“Fortunately for the CIA, I’ve passed on everything I learned as soon as I learned it. All those avenues of communication are burned.”
“None of that sounds fortunate for you,” Triumph grumbled.
“Nope. When he decides to make a move for me, when he finds me, it will be a long and painful end.”
“He’s not going to find you,” Triumph promised.
Idiot. How the hell could he promise that when he was only as far as Panama, and she was in Argentina? Maybe if he made that statement with enough finality behind it, it would ensure it to be true.
“You can’t guarantee that, M. I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this, and I knew my chances of survival were below fifty percent.”
“Nothing like thinking positive,” he grumbled.
“Realistic.” There was a small grunt again, followed by a hiss, then “eww.” Her voice held an odd note in it. “I’ve got the passport. I’ll try to patch myself up and head north. You should steer clear of this now.”
“Patch yourself up?” She killed her visitor. The hisses, the grunts. She hadn’t gotten out of the encounter unscathed. “Fuck, how bad?”
“I’m pretty fucked here. I appreciate you trying to help, but you should abort whatever you were going to try. I’m not going to expire in the next hour or so, but my odds are going to dramatically decrease with each hour.”
Tripoli leaned toward the speaker. “G, my name is Tripoli. I’m a friend of M’s and a former medic. What’s going on?”
She didn’t want to tell him. Her long pause said it all. But then she capitulated, suggesting she really wanted to fight. “Bullet in my right side.”
“What color is the blood?”
“Green.”
“Smart-ass,” Triumph muttered.
Tripoli had a slight quirk to one side of his mouth. “She always that sassy?”
“From what I remember, yes.”
“It’s red, you jackasses, but not arterial, which is what he was asking me. Not my first bullet wound, guys.”
She’d been shot before? When? How? Good God,why?
“Not exactly sure that’s reassuring,” Wes muttered.
“Can you turn on the video feature?” Tripoli asked.
“This phone doesn’t have it.”
“Okay. Bullet still inside?” Tripoli continued, his medic persona back in place.
“No exit wound,” she informed him.
“How’s your breathing?”
