Just before dawn, Indy awoke with a start. Through the tent flap, the sky was beginning to turn gray, and the trees were shrouded with mist. It was unusually quiet, save for the rush of the river and the rustling of leaves. Dragging a hand over his face, he grunted, shifting to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.
He had dreamed of Marion again, the same dream of wreckage and fire and plumes of black smoke. A few months ago, these dreams had never failed to tear him apart, and he'd usually processed them over a pint of liquor and a shot glass. But now, although the familiar ache was there, it felt less urgent. He had loved Marion, yes, and her death had been a knife in the gut. But the grief was losing its sharp edges, and he was learning to live with the guilt that remained.
Glancing across the tent, he found Spalko still asleep, mosquito net fastened securely over her bedroll. The events of the previous night came to his mind, and he felt a different type of guilt. He had gotten carried away, and he hadn't considered how her rough few months might be relevant. He had been so eager to move past the pain of Marion's accident, and as soon as the guilt became manageable, he'd rushed to action. He resolved to talk to her as soon as he found an opening.
The sun was beginning to rise, burning off the mist that still hovered near the ground. Spalko sat up suddenly, tossing the mosquito net aside. She nodded to him, and began folding her bedroll, returning the mosquito net to her pack. Indy did the same, pulling on his jacket and replacing his cap. Spalko walked to the door and retrieved her boots, shaking them out to dislodge any insects. A spider skittered towards the door, and she watched it silently, still holding her shoes.
As she prepared to leave, Indy cleared his throat. "Can we talk for a second?"
"Fine." Her bearing was stiff and proper, but she clenched and unclenched her hand at her side.
"Come sit."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "What is this about?"
He blurted out the words before he could lose his nerve. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable last night."
Even before he finished speaking, she was shaking her head. "You did nothing wrong."
"You seemed pretty upset."
"A momentary loss of control-"
"—No," he interrupted, taking her hands. "I mishandled the situation."
He watched her expression change as she considered this.
"I meant what I said, though. I like you as you are."
She scoffed at this, but her fingers tightened around his. "And I like you. I never expected such a development, but the world is a bewildering place."
He grinned. "Indeed."
From outside the tent, there were shouts, then the crackle of flames as the soldiers rekindled the fire. Reluctantly, he dropped her hands and got to his feet. The conversation had taken a weight off his shoulders, and the assurance that she reciprocated his affections made him giddy. Unzipping the tent, he stepped outside into morning sunlight.
They followed the river for several kilometers, making poor time on the sandy ground. Spalko walked along the edge of the water, scanning the shoreline for an appropriate place to launch their raft. The heat made it difficult to draw a breath, and her eyes stung with sweat. Jones walked beside her, bandanna knotted around his forehead.
They came to a calmer stretch of water, and she stood on her toes, scanning the surface for rapids or debris. Once satisfied, she looked to Jones.
"Prepare the raft," he directed the soldiers, and they scrambled to do his bidding.
She watched as they began unpacking the self-inflating raft, stored until now in an unopened case. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she came forward to assist them.
The roar of an explosion knocked her off her feet, and she slammed into the ground face first. Half conscious, she felt a wave of heat pass over her, and there was the stench of gunpowder and burning plastic. Her ears were ringing, and she tasted blood.
She stayed still for five more seconds, ignoring the sharp pain in her spine, then pushed up on her elbows. It took her a moment to process the scene before her. The raft was now a smoldering pile of melted plastic, and the sand was black with soot. The crumpled bodies of the two remaining soldiers lay beside the wreckage, and the beach was scattered with shards of metal.
Jones appeared in her peripheral vision. "What the hell was that?"
"…A bomb," she responded through gritted teeth, letting her arms collapse. She noticed a spot of blood on Jones' fatigue pants, just above his shin. "You're bleeding."
"Just a flesh wound," he assured her, walking towards the bodies of the soldiers. "Sit tight, okay?"
There was a pain like an ice pick behind her eyes, and she wondered if she'd sustained a concussion. She could feel blood trickling down her face, and the scene before her pitched and shivered. As long as she stayed still, she could keep the nausea at bay.
A moment later, Jones returned from his futile task. "They're dead."
She hummed in acknowledgement.
"You don't look too good yourself."
She turned her head away. "It's too bright."
"Oh." He knelt at her side, and his shadow fell over her. "Is that better?"
It was, but she was too dizzy to respond. Her stomach churned, and she turned her head to vomit in the sand.
He winced. "Stay still for a minute…"
She felt him pry her eye open, and she didn't resist. Noting her pupil size, he pinched her wrist between his fingers, counting under his breath.
He gently let her hand fall. "Could be a concussion."
The darkness gathering at the edges of her vision supported this notion.
Indy had managed to scavenge enough tarpaulin for a lean-to, and he'd picked a few other items from the smoking remains of their supplies. The tent was destroyed, as was much of their food and laboratory equipment. They had enough rations for a few days, and his pack contained weapons and a length of rope. They had survived with less, and Indy was not particularly concerned with this aspect of the situation.
The lean-to offered protection from the evening rain, and Indy sat hunched before a kerosene lantern, inspecting the small piece of shrapnel lodged in his leg. He'd sterilized a pair of pliers, and now he rolled up his cuff, preparing to remove it. A few feet away, Spalko was lying underneath his coat, conscious but pale. He'd wiped the blood from her face and given her a fistful of painkillers from the remaining first aid kit, but she was obviously still uncomfortable.
She watched without comment as he pried the shrapnel from his calf, steeling himself as the pliers closed around the protruding bit of metal. Tugging the splinter free, he cursed through gritted teeth. The cut was not deep, but even shallow wounds could be dangerous in the jungle. He remembered Irina pouring sterile alcohol on his arm a few days prior, and he retrieved the bottle, tensing as the liquid stung his skin. He flung the piece of metal away, wiped the pliers on his jacket sleeve, and returned the items to his pack.
Bandaging the injury was a bit awkward, and he bent forward, looping the cloth around his leg.
Spalko coughed. "Let me do it."
He shook his head and knotted the end of the cloth around his ankle. "I'll manage."
He took a place beside her, plucking off his hat and sitting it nearby. He kept his gun in its holster, and his knife was laid out beside the hat. The rain was loud against the tarp, but the space beneath was mostly dry.
Indy skimmed his fingers over her forehead. "How do you feel?"
"My head hurts a bit, but I'll be ready to carry on tomorrow."
His hand stilled. "I'm not sure that's wise. We lost most of our equipment in the explosion, and all of our men are dead-"
"-We're nearly to Akator. Ross may not authorize another expedition."
He considered this, calculating how long it would take to reach Akator with both of them injured. He remembered the loud crack of the explosion, and he felt suddenly uneasy. "This trip has been ill-fated from the start."
"The raft was packed with explosives. That is not fate; it is human action."
"Fair enough."
"Do you think Ross intended to kill us?'
"Not Ross," Indy responded decisively. "Why would he expend the resources to send us to Akator? He could've had us shot back in Alaska and no one would've been the wiser."
"Then who?" Her voice grew weaker, but her eyes were still bright with interest.
"The Soviet Union? I doubt they take kindly to fugitives."
"My countrymen would not kill me," she murmured. "They'd rather I returned to serve my sentence."
Indy bit back an argument. No doubt the Soviets would order her death, if only to keep her from talking. She knew a great deal about experimental weapons programs, and her defection would threaten the security of the Union. But she didn't look well, and he didn't want to provoke an argument. There would be time enough for arguing when she recovered.
Instead, he changed subjects. "Do you remember out first conversation?"
She looked bewildered. "In Nevada?"
"Yes."
"Of course. You mocked my accent."
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, wincing at the memory. "And you tried to read my mind!"
"It was simply an interrogation tactic-"
"-And not a very effective one."
"I will concede that."
He laughed quietly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "You should try to rest. I'll gather kindling for the fire."
Everything was as it had been the previous day. The bar was packed with raucous celebrants, and the smell of cigar smoke and too many bodies filled the back hallway. Mac leaned against the wall, receiver pressed to his ear. He felt a bit tipsy from his gin and tonic, and yesterday's hangover still fogged his thoughts. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the smoke-yellowed wallpaper, he waited for a break to speak.
"…Our men will be waiting at Akator to pick off any stragglers."
"Bold of you to assume they're still alive. We packed their equipment with enough explosives to kill an elephant."
"Curious use of hyperbole, Mr. McHale."
"I did my bloody job," he spat, irritated by the Russian's dismissive attitude. Mac felt eyes turning in his direction, and he lowered his voice.
"We know. You are not our only operative."
"Speaking of which, you better go to Akator prepared. If either of them survived-"
He heard the Russian sniff. "-That is all. Good night, Mr. McHale."
Mac let the receiver fall from his hands, not bothering to hang up. While the money was decent, he still felt a pang of remorse when he thought of Jones. Indy had never been one for quiet, and he would have gotten himself killed eventually, but Mac resented being the instrument. Still, his debts continued to accumulate, and he couldn't exactly be choosy when offered work. Kicking the receiver and tangled cord aside, he headed to the bar to order another gin.
