A Cut Above (17 page)

Did I just say that? Am I able to be that rational? Is all this nightmare experience becoming less . . . oh, I don’t know, less daunting? Less intimidating? Less terrorizing?

I hope not. I don’t want this to become my normal. Should there ever be an Andie “normal” again, if you get my drift.

“Good night,” I whisper. Then I pat around under me, only to realize we’re in some kind of dirt-floored basement. I’m about to sleep on that dirt floor. Yuck.

Keep your eye on the goalpost, Andie.

As I wriggle around to try and get comfortable—comfortable? Hah!—Max reaches out, curves his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me close. “Let’s pray.”

My heart swells big enough to burst. Is this—is Max— really real?

As hard to believe as it is, I do sleep. I realize this when a sliver of dim light pierces the thick darkness of our cell. The trapdoor above us is lifted, and we see a large basket at the end of a thick rope. Inch by inch, it’s lowered down to us.

“
El desayuno
,” a gruff male calls out.
“A comer!”

I scramble to my feet. I don’t want our breakfast to spill out over the dirt floor. “It’s nice to know they don’t plan to starve us.”

“Wait.” Max says. “Move slowly.”

He comes to my side, nods, and I reach out for the food. Before I can grab the basket, though, he takes hold of the rope and yanks hard.

The man above yells, then tumbles down. What happens next is a blur, but by the time Max is done, our jailor is tied with Max’s belt, his mouth stuffed with one of Max’s shirtsleeves.

“Here’s the deal,” Max says after we’ve all scarfed down enough to keep us going. “I’m going to hold you on my shoulders. I need you to get up there and find something strong and fixed to tie the rope to.”

“Me!” I’m embarrassed to admit the word comes out in a scared squeal. “But what if—”

“Forget the what-ifs. This is the only chance we’re going to get. I’m not about to let it pass us by.”

I realize the truth to his words and gulp my fears away. “Okay. I’ll go up there, but I don’t know how we’re going to get you out of here. And I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Me neither. Just go tie the rope to . . . oh, I don’t know, a beam or something structural. We’ll figure it out as we go.” I get the picture. “You’re going to climb up, aren’t you? But what about Laura? She can’t stand or walk or climb or much of anything.”

Max gives me a gentle nudge toward the edge of the opening overhead. “Once I’m up there with you, Laura can tie the rope around her waist, and you and I will pull her up. Think you can do that, Laura?”

“I can do that,” the teen says, hope palpable in her voice.

“Sounds good to me,” I add. “I just hope it works as well as it sounds.”

“It will. Your job’s to pray we don’t bump into one of his pals.”

“Is the rope long enough?”

“It’s got to be long enough, Andie. It’s all we have. Let’s go.”

Max wraps the rope around my waist, and I tie it in a loose enough knot. I don’t want to have to fiddle around with a tight knot once I’m above ground. Then I send up a silent prayer, take hold of Max’s hand, and slowly—oh, so slowly—climb onto his broad shoulders. He sways a time or two under my weight. Panic threatens.

Wonder what he thinks about my hips now?

After a precarious moment, though, Max stands firm. I find I can curl my fingers as far down as the first or second knuckle over the edge of the opening above if I stretch full out.

“Ready?” he asks. “I’m going to grab your ankles and push up. I hope I can hold you long enough for you to get a good hold, and then you can pull yourself out.”

“You know I haven’t joined a gym since I came home to Louisville, don’t you?”

“This isn’t the time to kid around.”

“I’m not kidding. Not at all. I really don’t know how much strength I have in my arms.”

“Trust God to make you able. And remember. If this doesn’t work, we’re stuck. Who knows for how long? In this hole. With what’s-his-face over there.”

The thought of spending more time in the subterranean jail gives my determination a healthy dose of starch. I square my shoulders, tip up my chin, and reach. Inch by inch, Max lifts me up into the opening. I feel the strain in his muscles as he quivers from the effort. Knowing how hard he’s trying wipes out my last bit of fear. I have to do as much.

With a burst of energy, Max pushes upward. My head breaches the opening. I reach out, plant both palms on the wood floor, and push . . . push . . . push. Muscles screaming against the unaccustomed effort, I get high enough to fold myself at the waist, half in the hole, half on the floor.

“One last push!” I ask Max.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, he comes up with a final burst, and gives me the momentum to slide forward. Once my hips clear the edge, I drag myself all the way out, with my hands and elbows, until I can haul my legs up too. Then I collapse where I wind up. I pant from the exertion. And promise myself to sign up at the nearest gym the minute I get home.

Because I
am
going home.

“Hey!” Max calls out. “You okay?”

“Yep, muscle man. I am. Give me a minute to find somewhere to tie the rope, okay?”

Dark as the room still is, I realize it’s some kind of large shed or small barn. The main doors are to the right of the trap door. And it’s those doors that provide me with an anchor. A tall, inch-thick rod runs floor-to-ceiling, holding one of the metal doors fixed while the other can swing open. The bar sits deep in a hole in the cement threshold.

“Found it!” I call out. “I have something to tie the rope to.”

“Just do it—and fast. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they send one of this one’s pals to find out what happened to him.”

I unwrap the rope from my waist, slip one end of it around the rod, and tie a number of tight knots to secure it in place. I tug to test; it’s firm.

“Here you go.” I drop the loose end to Max.

Immediately, it goes taut. Max grunts, breathes hard, huffs.

“Can I help you?”

A pained “No” rises out of the trapdoor opening.

I hold my breath as the harsh breathing continues. The rope wiggles from Max’s efforts. The rod scrapes against the concrete. I wonder if it’s as loud from the outside as it sounds to me. Maybe, hopefully, it’s my anxiety magnifying the sound.

After what feels like hours but can only have been seconds, I see one hand, then the other, top the open edge. Then, with the rope still tight in his clutch, Max plants his hands on the floor and pushes himself up.

He drops onto the floor, a successful smile on his lips.

My relief is so great I almost throw my arms around him and give him a hug. Almost.

Max claps his hands once, twice, then stands and heads for the door.

I frown. “Hey! There’s an injured girl down there, remember?”

“Yes, Andie, I remember.” His fake patience doesn’t win him any points with me. But he goes on. “I’m going to check on the rope. I weigh a couple of pounds”—he waves down his large frame—“and it might have loosened some. I don’t want Laura to fall again.”

Swallow me, earth. He’d been thinking of Laura all along. “Sorry,” I mumble sheepishly.

Once he tightens the knots again, he returns to the hole. “Come here with me.” He points to a spot a few steps to his left. “I want you to reach out to her once I pull her up high enough. The less she does with that leg, the better off she’ll be.”

Turning, he calls down instructions for Laura. The girl’s voice reveals her fear, but she’s brave and game to give Max’s plan a try. I’m impressed.

And then we go to work. Less than five minutes later, Max pulls the teen to the edge of the hole, and I reach out to grasp her hands. I pull, help her out. Once she’s out, Max unties the rope. He hurries over, and with painstaking gentleness, eases the injured girl to our side.

“Thank you,” she says, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Lean on me,” Max says. Then, eyes serious, lips tight, jaw squared, he adds, “Don’t thank me yet. We have a long way to go. Anything can happen.”

A chill runs down my back.

1100

My heart beats loud enough for Doña Rosario’s goons to hear. Even though they’re nowhere to be seen when we open the shed’s door. It’s early morning, and since the spread appears to be a working
hacienda
, I expect to see workers working. But the place looks deserted.

The isolation of the
hacienda
’s setting strikes me. We’re trying to escape but there might not be any. We might wander— and wander and wander and wander—endlessly before we find any help.

When I look at Max, I see the same concern reflected in his tight jaw, his grim expression, his narrowed eyes. The guy’s not stupid; he knows what we’re up against. So does Laura.

“You shouldn’t take me along,” she says in a soft whisper when Max gathers her into his arms. “I’m only going to slow you down. Go for help. They’ve been feeding me. I’ll be fine until you get back.”

Yeah, right. Even she doesn’t believe her words. Her voice trembles and her liquid-chocolate eyes widen with fear. No way will we leave her to their not-so-tender mercies.

“We’re going to need help with the language,” Max says. “You’re our translator. How could we leave you behind?”

I smile at him, grateful for his sensitivity. Not only is he not about to leave her behind, but he’s also given her true purpose in our mission. No wonder I’m crazy about the guy.

Whoa!
Where’d that come from? Crazy about Max. I know I care about him. Oh, let’s be honest here: I’m getting used to the thought of loving him. But crazy about him? Head-over-heels, gaga, loony tunes?

I look at him, drinking in his strong frame, his determination, his decency, and I accept the truth. Okay. Fine. So I
am
crazy about the guy.

What am I going to do about it?

Especially right now, out here, and under our circumstances.

Again, the excess of ridiculousness in our situation hits me. Here, in the middle of Back-of-Beyond, Colombia, there’s nothing I’m going to do about my feelings for Max. Other than pray we get out of this mess so we can maybe—just maybe—explore what direction God’s going to take those feelings.

“You ladies ready?” Max asks.

I snort. “Never been so ready in my life.”

“If you’re sure I’m not going to be a problem,” Laura whispers.

“Hey!” I say. “We need you just as much as you need us.”

“Let’s go,” Max says.

We hurry off into that vast emptiness of flat grasslands. The sun is starting to rise, and as it goes up, so does the quantity of sweat we produce. Poor Max. Not only is he hurrying to put as much distance between the
hacienda
and us as possible, but he’s also carrying Laura. I have no room to whine, not even when the “dew” pours into my eyes, making them burn.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” I ask Laura after a while of traveling through a whole lot of nothing.

“Not really. I know we’re in the eastern part of the country, where there are huge cattle ranches and lots of land for the animals, but I don’t know any more than that.”

“Any cities out here?”

“Not anything important.”

I’d been afraid that would be her answer. All we can do is keep on keeping on until we find help. And water. Food would be good too.

After about two hours go by, I cast my zillionth look over my shoulder. “Wonder why they haven’t come after us.”

“Does it matter?” Max asks, his voice tired—understandably.

My heart goes out to him, but there’s nothing I can do to help. “Not really, but I didn’t expect to get this far.”

“Doña Rosario spends a lot of time in Bogotá,” Laura says. “When she’s gone, I imagine her servants do what they want.”

I roll my eyes. “When the cat’s away . . .”

Max gives me a crooked grin. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Those poor cats you just insulted.”

We fall silent again, and I go back to praying. Then, as the fireball better known as the sun hits the midway point in the sky—and I’m positive I can’t force my exhausted body to take another step—I notice something far, far in front of us, just a bit closer to us than the horizon.

“Am I imagining things, or are those buildings up there?”

Max looks in the direction I point, and relief brightens his tired face. “Eureka! Water and someplace to sit.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Laura says, a tear rolling down her face.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Max answers. “Wait until we have you to a hospital, and a doctor puts your leg in a cast.” He doesn’t break the rhythm of his pace.

With our hopes renewed, we come up with enough strength to make our way to the smattering of buildings. But when we arrive, we look at each other in dismay. I have to unleash superhuman power to keep from groaning out loud.

I’d hoped for a town. Even a small village would’ve done. But no. What we’ve found is just seventeen hardscrabble structures clustered where a patchwork of agricultural fields meet. I don’t see power lines. There’ll be no phone service way out here.

But I have to recognize God’s mercy in leading us here. “Hey, guys. Things are looking up,” I say with a smile. “I’m sure there’s water here.”