Kerry ignored his acerbity and stared at the canvas bags. She had mistakenly thought they contained the weapons that would have assured her safe passage out of the country. It was several moments before she realized how long she’d been staring, lamenting her monumental error, contemplating her dilemma, and weighing the options left open to her.
She spun around. The man was headed into the jungle. “Where are you going?”
“To relieve myself.”
“Oh. Well, I admit I made a mistake, but I’d still like to offer you a deal.”
“Forget it, lady. I plan on making my own deal with El Presidente.” He thumped his thighs with his fists. “Dammit! I can’t believe I was stupid enough to miss that airplane. What enticed me to leave the cantina with you? Did you slip me a mickey?”
She took umbrage and didn’t even honor the accusation with a denial. “You were drunk before I found you. Why, when you were so bent on making that plane, were you drinking yourself senseless?”
“I was celebrating.” His teeth were angrily clenched, so Kerry knew she had struck a nerve. He was just as angry with himself as he was with her. “I couldn’t wait to leave this armpit of a country. I’d been grubbing around for days trying to buy a seat on that airplane. Know what I had to do in exchange for that visa?”
“No.”
“I had to take a picture of El Presidente and his mistress.”
“Doing what?” she asked snidely.
Insulted, he glared at her. “A portrait that I’ll probably sell to Time. If I ever get back to the United States. Which looks doubtful, thanks to you!”
“If you would just hear me out, I could explain why I needed a mercenary and went to such desperate lengths to get one.”
“But I’m not the one.”
“You look like one. Why do you think I chose you?”
“I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”
“I chose you over every other man in that bar because you looked the most disreputable and dangerous.”
“Lucky me. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“You use a camera instead of a machine gun, but you’re of the same breed as these soldiers of fortune.” She could still use him. If she had mistaken him for a professional soldier, it was probable that others would, too. “You sell your services to the highest bidder. I can make this worth your while, Mr....”
She stared at him in perplexity.
“O’Neal,” he supplied tersely. “Linc O’Neal.”
Lincoln O’Neal! She recognized his name instantly, but tried not to show that she was impressed. He was one of the most renowned and prolific photojournalists in the world. He’d made his reputation during the evacuation of Vietnam and had recorded on 35mm film every war and catastrophe since. He had two Pulitzer Prizes to his credit. His work was of the highest caliber, often too realistic for the weak-stomached and too poignant for the tender-hearted.
“My name is Kerry Bishop.”
“I don’t give a damn what your name is, lady. Now, unless you want to see what’s behind my zipper after all, I suggest you don’t detain me again.”
His crudity didn’t put her off as it was obviously intended to. It only fueled her resolve. He turned his back on her and went stalking through the trees. Despite her flimsy shoes, Kerry plunged through the wall of green after him.
She caught his sleeve again and, this time, held on. “There are nine orphans waiting for me to escort them out of the country,” she said in one breath. “I’m working with the aid of a benevolent group in the United States. I’ve got three days to get them to the border. On Friday a private plane will land there and pick us up. If we’re not at the rendezvous place on time, the plane will leave without us. I need help in getting them through fifty miles of jungle.”
“Good luck.”
She uttered a cry of disbelief when he turned away again. She clutched his sleeve tighter. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Every single word.”
“And you don’t care?”
“It’s got nothing to do with me.”