He forced his breathing to stay even. It wasn't her, so he could just focus on his damn job.
"Well, Hunt, have you checked the maintenance status of the airplanes? Make sure they're ready to get us out of here at a moment's notice. Don't wait for maintenance to come seek you out."
"Yes, sir. Both aircraft are in the green, only minor write-ups, a seat cushion doesn't meet minimum comfort levels, a scratch to repaint, nothing that can't wait—"
"Have you checked the weather?"
"Pretty much like you see it now. Chance for thunderstorms—we're near a rain forest after all—but nothing below minimum standards for flight—"
"Are our crewdogs all billeted up for the night? No breaking crew rest before we fly out tomorrow."
"Got it covered."
"We need weather for here, there and in-between, too."
"Right. That's why I was coming to check in with you in the first place." He tugged papers from under a chart by the computer. "I've got printouts right here."
Quade thumbed through the pages, found the data sufficiently detailed, but then he wouldn't expect less from a flyer as seasoned as Hunt.
He was beating the guy up for nothing. If anything, Hunt went above and beyond after being shot down in the Middle East, then held for a week by warlords.
"Sir? Anything else?"
Hunt was too damned perceptive and the cavernous cargo hold was shrinking fast. Six more hours of gut-burning waiting with suddenly sensitive Hunt? Screw that.
Lucas shoved to his feet, restless and in need of the solitude he was only likely to find in the jungle outside. He secured his weapon strapped to his waist and shrugged into his survival vest. "Looks like you've got it covered. I'm going for a walk."
"Are you ready for our walk, chica?" Sarafina Tesoro Quade asked as she fished out the survival backpack from deep in her closet.
She tried to keep her tones lighthearted in spite of the ticking clock easing away precious seconds to make her escape, louder in her head than the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of her bedroom. Lighthearted? Whimsy came slower to her these days, a good thing since the frivolous fool she'd once been wouldn't have stood a chance of surviving what lay ahead.
"I like walks in the woods." Lucia jumped higher on the queen-size bed, dark curls bouncing, Sara's bilingual daughter babbling in a mix of Spanish and English. "And bugs. Will we see bugs? Please? I won't eat'em this time. Promise."
"I'll hold you to that promise." Sara tugged her daughter's ponytail and prayed her shaking hands wouldn't betray her. The last thing she needed was a frantic four-year-old on her hands while trying to slip out of Ramon's compound, her lavish prison-home for the past five years.
When she'd woken from her surgery after the embassy attack, groggy and in fiery pain, she'd found her father's old friend at her bedside, ready to console her over Lucas's and Tomas's death. Through her hoarse screams of denial, he'd explained that his contacts documented they'd died in a helicopter explosion on their way out of the country.
She'd feared Tomas landing in Ramon's care, but anything was better than death. Yet she'd wanted to die, as well, had curled up inside and out, crying until she was dry and proving everything her father had ever said about her being a piece of fluff.
Then came a surprise reason to haul herself out of her depression and heal. The baby she carried had survived the shooting and surgery. For Lucas's child, she would fight, even if it meant depending on Ramon.
The following months had passed in a blur of bed rest, then caring for her fragile premature daughter, planning her life. Slowly, she'd emerged from her grief enough to realize she didn't have a life since she couldn't leave. Ramon still swore it was for her own good since she was ill—apparently she entertained unwise yearnings to betray their homeland by leaving. Her father may have been soft with his children, but Ramon wouldn't repeat the mistake.
Ramon cut off all her contact with the outside world, keeping her as a pampered captive, handpicked for her family connection to be a nanny to his five grandchildren. He controlled this little corner of Cartina, after all, and carried an obsessive adherence to familial and friend connections with a mafia like lethal intensity.
She'd found no alternative but to bide her time as she nursed her premature child through one medical crisis after another. Although these days little Lucia certainly appeared healthy enough, working off her endless supply of energy by jumping on the bed. She hoped she was making the right decision in leaving now, but she feared staying any longer after what she'd overheard while standing outside Ramon's study this morning.
"Will we see frogs, too, Mama? Oooh, and a lizard. I want a lizard. It can live in my pocket and be my friend."
Thank goodness her tomboy child preferred jeans and T-shirts instead of dresses so she wouldn't arouse suspicion by suddenly appearing in more practical clothes. She allowed herself a reassuring second to study her precious baby, her mirror image. She liked to imagine Lucia had inherited her black hair and leanness from her papa, even though she certainly hadn't received his genes for height.
Lucas. Even thinking his name and envisioning him made her long to sink into memories the way she'd often replayed their dates and lovemaking in her mind five years ago, anticipating the next time her lean, stark lover would...
But she wasn't a daydreamer any longer.
"I am certain we will see plenty of frogs, butterflies and lizards today, maybe even a snake." Sara shuddered at thoughts of the human snakes slithering in the compound and the jungle beyond her barred window.
She inventoried her bag—bottled water, not much, though, because of the weight and most likely there would be plenty of rain. Two ponchos. Bug repellent. Mosquito netting. Flashlight and a purloined stash of PowerBar packets for energy in case they did not reach their destination by sundown.>He'd given up on miracles in kindergarten after a playground drive-by shooting.