Sam shifted the Rover into Park and pushed the tailgate button; the tailgate popped open. “Take everything we’ve got.” They gathered their belongings, raced around to the back, and grabbed their backpacks.
Down the slope, the blue Nissan rounded a bend in the road and started climbing.
Sam handed Remi his pack. “Can you manage these?”
“Yes.”
“Run.”
Remi took off. Sam returned to the driver’s seat, switched the transmission into reverse, then jogged beside the Rover, steering, until the rear tires bumped over the lip of the slope. He slammed the door and jumped aside. The driver of the Nissan saw the Rover rolling toward him and slammed on the brakes. The transmission ticked as he switched into reverse. Behind him, the red Nissan came around the corner and skidded to a stop.
“Too late,” Sam said.
The Rover’s back tires bumped over a bundle of exposed roots. The tail vaulted, then crashed down onto the Nissan’s hood. The driver’s door opened. Sam drew the Webley, crouched down, fired a round into it. The door slammed shut. Sam adjusted his aim, put a bullet through the red Nissan’s hood for good measure, then turned and ran.
SAM CAUGHT UP to Remi a minute later. They’d been mistaken; the trail didn’t go down to the river but rather over it. Remi stood at the head of the footbridge. As Sam drew alongside her, she handed him his pack. Behind them, through the trees, voices called to one another in Spanish.
“Looks sturdier than the last bridge,” Remi said. The construction was remarkably similar—planks, crossbeams, ropes, and two suspension cables. To their left they could see the bow of the ferry coming around the bend, its funnel belching black smoke. Aside from a dozen or so people lining the rails and a few on the forecastle, the ship was empty.
“Come on,” Sam said, and took off in a sprint, Remi at his heels.
They stopped in the center of the span. The ferry was a hundred feet away. Sam looked back down the bridge. Through the trees he glimpsed movement, arms flailing. Someone was trying to climb the slope.
Remi was leaning over the handrail. “The drop’s too far.”
“To the forecastle, it is,” Sam agreed. “See the upper deck behind the wheelhouse? It’s fifteen feet, maybe less.”
“Why not the wheelhouse roof? It’s only—”
“We’re trying to stow away. Wave, Remi, attract attention!”
“Why?”
“Rivera’s less likely to start shooting if he’s got an audience.”
“Always the optimist.”
They started waving, smiling, hooting. People on the forecastle and along the rails saw them and waved back. The ferry’s bow slid beneath the bridge.
“Ten seconds,” Sam told Remi. “Hug your pack. As soon as you hit the deck, bend your knees and roll into it. Okay, up you go!” Sam helped her over the guardrail. “Ready?”
Remi gripped his hand. “You’re coming, right?”
“Absolutely. When you’re down, find some cover in case they start shooting.”
The wheelhouse roof disappeared beneath their feet, followed a moment later by the funnel. Black smoke billowed around them. Sam glanced left. Through the haze he saw Itzli Rivera skid to a stop at the head of the footbridge. Their eyes met for a moment, then Sam turned away, gave Remi’s hand a squeeze, and said, “Jump!”
Remi fell away into the smoke. Sam felt the bridge shiver beneath his feet with the pounding of footfalls. Rivera and his men were coming. Sam climbed over the railing, looked down. Through the gaps in the smoke he saw Remi on the deck, scrambling clear on her hands and knees.
Sam pushed off.
He hit the deck hard, bounced once off his pack, then rolled right. From out of the smoke Remi scrambled forward and latched onto his forearm. “This way.” He followed her, crawling blindly until he bumped into what he assumed was the wheelhouse’s aft bulkhead. They sat together, gulping oxygen until their heart rates returned to normal.
Now that they were past the bridge, the funnel’s exhaust cleared. Fifty yards away, Rivera and three of his men stood at the bridge railing, staring down at them. One of the men reached for something in his belt and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. Sam reached into his own belt, drew the Webley, held it above his head in profile, and gave it a waggle.
Rivera barked something at the man, who holstered his gun.
Sam said, “Wave to the nice men, Remi.”