Green glares over his shoulder. “You good? There should be somewhere to stop up ahead.”
“I’m good.” I squeeze my bicep, sealing the wound.
“Then shut up and stop squealing and stop stepping on every noisy branch.”
I clamp down because now’s not the time to lecture the Viking on his lack of empathy. But I do start watching where his feet are stepping and try to place my feet in the same places. There’s the smallest possibility he might be right. We’re moving a lot more quietly now. But his definition of close and mine are totally different.
My hand’s clamped over the hole in my arm. I’m looking out for things I might use to help stop the bleeding. We’ve got nothing. I’m not even wearing a shirt to take off and make a tourniquet or sling. Green’s wearing swim shorts. I’m wearing cargo shorts. Shorts I almost ditched back in the cave. I’m really thankful that I didn’t. Then again, the thought of running through the jungle with my junk swinging around so I can use my shorts to stop the bleeding doesn’t bring me any joy.
I have to catch another branch, and this time I manage to grit my teeth and duck out of the way of it. When we break through the scrub brush onto what could almost be considered a path, I slow.
“You need a break?”
“Did you ever consider becoming a runner?” I ask.
“I played ball.”
“Right. Yeah, I need a minute.”
Green glances at my arm. He yanks down his pants. From the pocket, he takes his ever-present pocketknife. He slices around the edge of both legs, taking them off. “Let me see.” I don’t wincewhen I remove my hand. He also doesn’t react to my torn flesh. “Through and through. That’s good.”
I nod because he’s right. It’s better than if I had to go digging in my arm for a bullet.
He folds one of the legs of his shorts up and cuts it in two. “Hold this one on the front.” He places it on the front side of my arm and another on the back, then he wraps the remaining one around my arm, securing the two squares of cloth in place tightly. The pressure brings a welcome new dimension to the pain.
He yanks his pants back on. The pocket now hangs lower than the legs of the shorts. They’re more a tool belt for his knife. “You ready? I can hear the stream up ahead.”
I close my eyes and block out the other noises, and only then can I faintly make it out. I’m a few steps behind him again. With the adrenaline vanishing from my blood, the throbbing in my arm increases. I’m dragging. No way I’m going to let Green know it. The competitor in me won’t let that happen. Each step hurts more than the last one, but knowing the pirates could be on our trail makes it a lot easier to fight the pain. The jungle changes, opens somewhat, and damn if Green wasn’t right. A stream appears on our left. It’s running faster than the one near camp.
“The mountain comes down a lot steeper on this side,” Calvin answers my unasked question. He bounds through the waist-deep ferns, avoiding them like he’s skiing through a slalom course. “Try to keep from leaving a blood trail.”
“I’ll try to stop bleeding.”
“Stop touching the plants,” he barks.
I pull my arm close into my stomach. This is like the worst game of the ground is lava I ever played with Emily.
It’s another half mile before Green stops again. It’s hard to see anything, but the mountain has to appear soon. There aremore rocks under our feet and less dirt, and the canopy is opening up.
Green stops at the edge of the stream. He focuses ahead and then back at the water. “You up for a swim? If they are following us, we can stop the trail.”
“I’m always up for a swim. Even with one arm.” I try not to think about what I’m saying. Fuck. I left my professional swimming days behind me before I even stepped on board the yacht. But a little part of me always thought that maybe I might change my mind. It’s not realistic. I wasn’t keeping up with the young kids, even when I trained every day. But having a hunk shot out of my dominant arm? There’s not even a small chance of “maybe” left.
Green eases into the water. “There’s a good step in over here.” He turns and watches me as I jump in. My legs are fine. I don’t need to worry about them.
Every scratch on my body lights up when water hits them. It’s waist-deep in the middle and crystal clear, matching the other side of the mountain. It’s cooler, though. Or that could be me, the hormones racing out of my body.
The cold water shocks my system. It’s remarkable, the difference between the two sides of the mountain. Every scratch, every nick, is on fire. I duck my head underwater, holding my arm above my head, trying to keep it dry. I shake my head like a dog when I come out of the water, droplets rolling down my face. I run my fingers through my hair, slicking it back. Green’s already thirty feet ahead of me. I have to double-step to catch up to him.
I glance back over my shoulder. What did I expect? To see a troop of rebels chasing after us? But there’s nothing, not even a bird.
The stream is deeper on this side. In places, it goes all the way up to my chest. But it’s certainly easier to navigate thanfighting our way through the undergrowth of the jungle or the ferns.
With a little effort, I catch up to Green. There are deep scratches all over his back, and his shoulders as well. We tread through the water, moving as silently as possible. Occasionally, one of us will touch a rock and it splashes. My heart thuds. I turn back to see if anyone has heard it behind us, though we’re still in the clear.
The stream gets steeper as we get closer to the mountain, but on this side, there’s no waterfall. The water slowly cascades down the mountain from side to side, sliding into a small pool with less dramatic effect than on our side of the island.
Green turns back and looks at me. “You ready to climb?” I look up at the mountain. “It’s a lot worse than it looks,” he says.
