all the sisters are virtuous.” The update would be: “Call the JAG office if you have a question about appropriate behavior.”
Or, look inside yourself.
He glanced at Taylor, whose peaceful sleep was actually heat exhaustion. She’d be herself with a little food and water.
On the question of whose fault this was, he took full responsibility for his actions—though maybe the gods who lived on the tepui had screwed him up. Or maybe he had engaged in some unconscious macho posturing for Maggie Taylor. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make horny. None of this would have happened if he’d been partnered with that dork Taylor had replaced.
And on the subject of partners and assignments, had he got this case because Colonel Dombroski and General Hackett had faith in him—or because of the CIA’s faith in Maggie Taylor?
This would seem to be an unimportant question under the present circumstances, but it bugged him. He might discover the answers to all the questions he had about Kyle Mercer from Kyle Mercer, but he’d never know what had gone on behind the scenes in Quantico and the Pentagon unless he got back.
He thought about Mercer again—about appealing to the thing that Kyle Mercer, Scott Brodie, and Maggie Taylor had in common: They had all been there.
There. The bullet-scarred alleyways of Fallujah, the IED-riddled back roads of Taliban country, and a lonely outpost in the Hindu Kush—fucked-up war zones that seep into your soul and stay there.
And now, for all three of them, it meant this jungle, the terminus of their separate journeys. He wondered what Kyle Mercer was thinking right now.
Brodie heard voices and he shook Taylor awake.
She woke quickly. “What?”
“They’re back.”
She listened to the voices outside the door. “Emilio.” She kept listening. “Someone said, ‘Take them to the river…’ ” She looked at Brodie.
Well, that could mean they were going to swim with the crocs and the piranhas. Or, more optimistically, they were being taken to their boat and sent on their way—on orders from the boss. Except Kyle Mercer would certainly want to know why Mr. and Mrs. Bowman had asked for him by name.
The door opened and Emilio entered alone, though Brodie could see men outside. Emilio looked at them, then drew Brodie’s Glock with one hand and tossed something toward him with the other.
Brodie looked at what landed on the palm fronds: two keys on a chain. He picked them up and tried the first key on his padlock, which worked. He opened Taylor’s lock with the second key.
Emilio shouted, “Levántense!”
Brodie and Taylor slipped the shackles off and stood.
Brodie thought they were going to be marched out, but Emilio had something else in mind and he shut the door, then said something to Taylor.
She didn’t reply.
“What did he say?”
“He said… now that we are alone, he wants to see me naked… then we go someplace nice.”
Brodie didn’t know what to say, but Taylor knew what to do, and she pulled off her T-shirt, unclasped her bra, and kicked off her shoes.
Brodie turned away as Taylor removed her pants and panties, but he glanced at Emilio, who was smiling.
Brodie stood with his back to Taylor as Emilio satisfied two of his desires—seeing the pretty woman naked, and humiliating her and her husband at the same time. But Brodie wasn’t humiliated; he was enraged—though he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Maybe later.
Emilio spoke to Taylor and she bent down, retrieved the keys, and walked the few feet to Emilio and handed them to him, giving him a closer look at her body, and a view of her rear as she walked back to the log.
Emilio said something, and Taylor translated: “He wants you to know he likes my body. You are a lucky man.”
“Fuck him.”
He felt Taylor’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Brodie looked at Emilio, who was now looking at his watch—Brodie’s watch—and Emilio barked two words at Taylor that Brodie assumed were “Get dressed.”
Obviously they were on a schedule, which could mean the boss was waiting.
Taylor quickly put her clothes and shoes back on. Brodie was sure that if they’d come into a different kind of camp—a narco camp—Emilio wouldn’t have stopped at just having Taylor strip. But this place was run by a former Army officer who, apparently, at least half remembered what he’d been taught about the treatment of prisoners, and maintaining discipline, and keeping to a schedule.
Which didn’t mean Emilio wouldn’t have his way with Ms. Taylor later. He just had to wait until the