Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

Jake didn’t answer.

“You knew. And you let him. That’s why you put the tracker in my necklace.” So much for keeping me safe. The only reason I didn’t slip out from under Jake’s arm and disappear into the night was because I had no place to go.

“There’s a lot at stake.”

“I know. Nuevo Laredo and Afghani heroin and another cartel war.”

Jake snapped his head in my direction. “You read what was on the drive.”

“Guilty.” There was no point in mentioning that Mia and André had read it too.

“You told Gonzales you hadn’t.”

“I lied.”

“But he believed you.”

“And everyone says I can’t act.”

“You can’t. Gonzales is an idiot.” Furrows—visible even in the dark—cut from the edges of Jake’s nose to the thin line of his mouth. “People would kill for that information.”

“I am aware.” Dry. Bone dry. That was my tone. “Although, I don’t see why. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if the Zetas are weak the Sinaloans will go after Nuevo Laredo.”

“That’s not the dangerous part.” Jake planted his feet. “Afghanis moving heroin through Mexico. That’s the dangerous part. Hell.” He shook his head. “You are in so much danger.”

“If that’s true, the best thing we can do is get out of here.” I tugged at him.

“Por aquí!”

A bird that had settled in for the night squawked its displeasure. A bat whooshed by. The adrenalin surge in my veins gave me strength. I pulled Jake forward. “C’mon. We need to move. How far are we from the pick-up site?”

“Too far. And they’re too close.” He glanced back toward where the voice had come from. “We won’t make it.”

If sunny, always-too-confident Jake said we wouldn’t make it, we wouldn’t make it.

We.

“Can you make it by yourself?” I demanded.

A stubborn expression settled on his face. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Then we both die.”

His jaw dropped.

“Ignacio Quintero wants to meet me.” I closed my eyes, blotting out Jake’s face. “He wants to woo me. His men aren’t going to hurt me.”

“No. I’m not leaving you.”

“What choice do we have?”

“We can make a stand.”

Men could be such idiots. “In the dark? With one gun? Against God knows how many sicarios? You need to go. I’ll lead them in a different direction.”

“Poppy.” His voice was a plea.

“If you go, I’ll convince them a Zeta snatched me.”

“You’re a terrible actress.”

“I convinced Gonzales. Which way is the landing strip?”

Jake didn’t move.

“We don’t have time. Tell me.” I slipped out from under his arm. “Which way?”

“But—”

“Which way, Jake?”

He pointed to our left.

“Next time you rescue me, bring backup.” I stepped away from him, toward the voices. “Go!”

Jake gazed at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Go!”

Still he paused. “I’m sorry about this.” Suddenly there was a knife in his hand and its blade was cutting into my skin.

Blood ran down my cheek. “What the hell?”

“I love you.” He lurched into the trees—heading west.

I veered to the left—crashed to the left. Even with the handicap of my stiff boots, I’d be able to move faster than Jake could. If the sicarios followed a trail, it needed to be mine.

I trotted along in the dark. I made noise. I disturbed birds. I breathed in gasps.

There! Up ahead. The trees thinned and moonlight lit a clearing. I raced toward the light.

I emerged from the trees and found myself above a poppy field.

An enormous poppy field on the side of the mountain. It was a lovely scene. A field of moonlight-kissed flowers waving in the light breeze. Too pretty to be the source of so much misery.

I straightened my shoulders and formed a plan. Presumably the field required workers. There had to be a road. If I made it to the road, I might actually escape.

I paused, listened, and heard voices. Maybe. The soft whispers could have been the wind. I hoped for voices, following me and not Jake.

One small, tentative step toward the field and the ground gave way beneath my heel.

“Eeeek!” For half a second my arms spun like windmills searching for balance where there was none. I slid down the slope on my backside, legs akimbo, arms flailing, and landed in a heap. A shower of dirt and twigs and rocks followed me.

Could this night get any worse?

Had the sicarios heard me?

I hauled myself off the ground and dashed into the field, weaving my way through flowers that reached up to my hips. In addition to the flowers, there were stalks topped with odd bulbs. Sticky bulbs—almost gummy. Yech! Whatever sap was on them was nasty.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

I turned in a circle looking for the source of the sound.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch—ssss.

A stream of water cut across my chest, soaking my sweater.

I’d tempted fate by thinking the night couldn’t get any worse. Who would have guessed that hidden poppy fields would be irrigated with automatic sprinklers?

Not me.

Shivering in the chill air, and quickly wet through, I slogged down the length of the field and found a dirt rut that might, if one’s eyes were crossed after drinking a whole bottle of tequila, be called a road.

I followed the rut down and down and down until the dirt met a narrow paved lane. An actual road. Well, almost.

Down again.

Surely the road led to a town or—

I blinked, blinded by headlights.

The truck stopped and a man barked at me. “Hands up!”

Or that’s what I assumed.

He might have said almost anything—his Spanish was too rapid for me to catch a single word. Sticking my hands in the air seemed the wisest course.

Under normal circumstances I could charm most men. The circumstances weren’t normal. I’d witnessed a murder, been thrown from a horse, slid down a mountain, and been doused by a sprinkler system meant for poppies. There were probably drowned rats that looked more attractive than I did. “No hablo español. Hablas inglés?”

A uniformed man with an automatic rifle stepped out from behind the lights.

“Quién eres?”

My name is Poppy Fields. Mi nombre es Poppy Fields. Are you police officers?”

Silence.

“Son policías?”

A man laughed. More than one man.

Uh-oh. That creepy crawly feeling that ran down my spine was not a good sign.

I was an unprotected gringa in clothes that fit like a wet second skin wandering the forest.

“I was staying with Javier Diaz and I was kidnapped. Do you know Señor Diaz? Do you know Señor Quintero?”

The laughter stopped. The men had a quick, emphatic discussion.

Then one of them used his gun to motion me toward the back of the truck.

I held my hands up higher.

“Rapido!” The man gestured with his gun.

That gun—I was out of choices. I followed his instructions.

The back of a pick-up had recently been used to transport livestock. Goats?

My eyes watered but I didn’t complain. I just hauled myself onto the truck bed.

Now I was wet, dirty, and smelled like a goat.

I wrapped my arms around my shins and rested my forehead against my knees.

One of the armed men climbed in after me.

With a bone-jarring lurch, the truck moved.

Hopefully, Javier would be glad to see me. Because that was where we were going. It had to be. We were headed up the mountain.

If he believed I’d been abducted by a Zeta, I had a chance. If he thought an American DEA agent had attempted my rescue, I was as good as dead. I practiced my story.